


The Assignment

by languageintostillair



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Demisexuality, Established Relationship, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Just Very Soft Spies, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Minor Jaime Lannister/Pia, Minor Violence, No Cold War Politics, Open Relationship Defined By Professional Circumstances, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2020-06-23 22:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 152,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19711024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageintostillair/pseuds/languageintostillair
Summary: She is supposed to call him Jaime, Jaime Lannister. Her name, her new name that is now also the name she was born with, is Brienne Lannister, née Tarth. Soon enough, they said, her backstory would become her memories. His children would become hers, too. And they will infiltrate enemy territory in the most daring way possible—as a perfectly ordinary family.An AU inspired by The Americans—in which Jaime and Brienne are spies working undercover as a married couple, with two children, for as many years as their country requires.





	1. Names

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter fic, and I've found myself attempting to write Jaime and Brienne as some version of Philip and Elizabeth Jennings from The Americans (probably one of the best TV series of all time). If you're not familiar with the premise, it involves two Soviet KGB officers posing as an American married couple with their unsuspecting children in 1980s Washington DC, while living a double life as spies. (The Americans is based on the events of the real-life, post-Cold War [Illegals Program](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illegals_Program), a network of Russian sleeper agents. They were arrested in 2010.)
> 
> I’ve reassembled (or possibly butchered) elements from GoT, ASoIaF, and The Americans, in ways that I hope will be compelling, rather than trying to establish straightforward parallels. I've also chosen to keep the geopolitics vague – it is not explicitly set during the Cold War, or some Westerosi version of the conflict. I’m writing this with more of a focus on exploring J/B’s inner worlds and their evolving relationship. Nonetheless, in my mind the story unfolds over the 1970s to 1980s, mostly for practical reasons of not wanting to deal too much with advanced spy technology. Finally, in order to make a couple of my plot decisions more plausible, Jaime and Cersei are cousins, not siblings, and Myrcella and Tommen are twins.
> 
> Banner by the lovely [Ro Nordmann](https://ronordmann.tumblr.com)

She knows his real name, of course. There are only so many officers (one) missing a right hand, and still allowed to serve besides. She knows him by that other, more infamous name as well—he had come back from a disastrous mission, years earlier, to whispers of betrayal distilled into that one word. _Classified information_ , the higher-ups at the Centre had declared about the whole affair, and his loyalty to the Cause was not to be questioned. One of the best officers to ever serve, and yet this name hung in the air around him, stale with the miasma of derision, even more so after he lost his hand ten months ago. But she has to forget that name, though it had clung to him since before she thought to join the Centre. He is her _husband_ , now; for Cause, for country. This means she has to trust him fully, or try her very best to do so. She must keep her doubts about him buried deep, if she cannot dispel them altogether.

These are the facts she has at hand: this is her very first assignment, fresh out of training. She had been stellar, probably the best out of all the cadets in her cycle. She is also a woman, though her reflection in the mirror does its utmost to tell her otherwise, tall and broad as she is. Gender equality might be one of the fundamental tenets of the Cause—it is one of many reasons why she believes in it so resolutely—but both Cause and country are still young, relatively speaking. Her existence, her superiority, had been a hard pill to swallow for her fellow trainees, all men, only a couple as large or larger than her. There were incidents, in training; humiliation that she thought could be erased with the immense pride she feels in being selected for this assignment, for the Programme. But she is a _woman_ , and she is to play—no, to _be—_ _wife_ to one of the Centre’s most notorious officers, who had been missing his right hand for the better part of a year. Who had already been assigned to the Programme with someone else, already had the kids to show for it. She didn’t even have to sleep with him, to bear his children. She will be his wife only in order to be his muscle. 

These are the facts she has at hand, and there are dots there she doesn't want to connect. She floods her mind with a rush of renewed faith in the Cause. _Infiltrating enemy territory in the most daring way possible. As a perfectly ordinary family._

She is supposed to call him Jaime, Jaime Lannister. The General (his father, she knows) had introduced him by that name, made no mention of his other name ( _names_ ), as if his son’s reputation did not precede him, as if she and every other officer didn’t know they were related at all. Her name, her new name that is now also the name she was born with, is Brienne Lannister, née Tarth. The syllables feel strange on her tongue, her name and his; the accent she is supposed to emulate still slips between the gaps in her teeth as she tries and tries to push her mother tongue back down her throat. They said it will become effortless, eventually. Soon enough, they said, her backstory will become her memories. His children will become hers, too. The closer she came to the first day of the assignment, to the first meeting with him—with Jaime, her _husband—_ the more she had dreamed of her childhood on the island, running barefoot along its coasts, its meadows... Or was it Brienne’s island, Brienne’s feet on the sand, the sea, the grass?

She is sitting on a couch in the General’s office, next to Jaime. He offers to pour her tea, does so with his left hand, his prosthetic right anchored firmly in his lap. She notices that he stiffens when she glances at it; she looks away. Now he is telling her that they will meet the twins tomorrow, that he hopes she’s good with babies. She nods, remembers two baby sisters, long dead, that she’s not supposed to remember. She tries to forget Jaime’s two other names and the weight they carry. But most of all, she tries to forget that he is golden, and beautiful, in all the ways she is not. Or maybe she tries to be okay with it, knowing that she has to lie next to this golden and beautiful man almost every night for the foreseeable future. She realises she has been gripping her teacup, tight, staring at the liquid within as if it could drown her. She finds the strength to look up into his eyes, too green for their own good, and thinks she must trust this man with her entire life, while lying to him about it at the same time.

She is Brienne Lannister, and he is her husband, Jaime.

* * *

When she walks into his father’s office, he doesn’t startle. This is their first meeting, but he’s read her file—read _Brienne’s_ file. He knows she has a couple of inches on him, tall as he is. He has seen her face before, in a black-and-white photograph, knows it is a compliment to call it plain. She is looking at her feet, nervous—who wouldn’t be, given the circumstances—and he thinks she is young, so much younger, feels the full decade yawn between them. An awkward girl at odds with a soldier’s—no, a _warrior’s_ body. A year ago, maybe, before he lost his hand, he might have been tempted to ask, _are you really a woman? Am I to gain a husband rather than a wife?_ It would have been a cruel thing borne of arrogance. He might have been tempted to do so six months ago, when he was still reeling from the loss of his hand, from Cersei’s reassignment. A cruel thing borne of bitterness. He is still arrogant, still bitter, but there’s some measure of resignation in him now that silences his cruelty. He invites her to sit on the couch, offers her tea, pours it out with his left hand. His stump itches beneath his prosthetic.

He thinks of Cersei. He had called her by another name most of their lives, but he finds himself thinking of her as Cersei, Cersei Lannister, the only name by which she might have been his wife. She is his cousin, but might as well have been his sister. He thinks that they loved each other so much and from so young that it might not have mattered even if she was. They had grown up together under the thumb of the General, his two golden children, knowing all along that they were expected to not only serve the Cause and the country, but also lead, _control_. The General had ignored their relationship until he couldn’t—or until he could use it. They had a son, much earlier than they should have, who was now being groomed, the next generation of a golden dynasty. When the Programme was devised, the General strongly suggested his children for it. She was already pregnant again, anyway, with the twins. Might as well put that pregnancy to some use. _A perfectly ordinary family_. Jaime and Cersei Lannister, with their newborn twins Myrcella and Tommen.

Then he had to go and do the phenomenally stupid thing of getting himself captured, and losing his hand in the process. The last mission before their assignment was due to begin, just as the twins were about to be born, and he goes and does _that_. By the time he had escaped, by the time the skin on his stump had begun to heal, Cersei was being reassigned. An embassy position, perfect for her particular disposition—manipulation and duplicity where her power could be exercised, witnessed. In his absence she had claimed she was unable to care for the twins, and they had been raised by a rotation of nannies practically from the womb. _Well, they will still have their use_ , the General said. _You will continue with the Programme, with a new wife_. Someone skilled enough, strong enough, to replace his right hand.

His cover, his name, remained the same—Jaime Lannister. He wonders if the General meant to punish him somehow, for loving his cousin this way; the name Jaime Lannister, like his other names, carried weight, carried Cersei with it. He knows it is far more likely that his father just didn’t see the point in wasting time and effort on constructing a new backstory, and a paper trail to go with it, when this one hadn’t been used at all.

He comes back to himself, to Brienne delicately sipping her tea, but with such a white-knuckle grip on the handle of the teacup that he almost laughs at the absurdity of the scene. He doesn’t know what to say, so he talks about the twins. He says, foolishly, that he hopes she’s good with babies. She finally seems to gather the courage to make eye contact, and he thinks about how he has seen her face only in a black-and-white photograph, and while it showed him that it would have been a compliment to call her plain, it had done no justice to her eyes, too blue for their own good. He sees the struggle there: some mixture of disdain—for his past, for the Targaryen incident, what else—and pity—for the loss of his hand. He realises she knows more about him, about his dark and distorted history, than he might ever know about her.

Brienne seems to decide that she must make an effort at conversation, because she is rambling on about Cause and country now, with a naive idealism he has perhaps never possessed. He thinks she is truly nothing like Cersei. _Gods, you really do believe in it, don’t you?_ and she’s looking at him strangely now, and _oh_ , he’s said it out loud. He reassures her that he does—it does neither of them good, at this point, to reveal any sort of disillusionment. Jaime Lannister is not a disillusioned man. He has a wife, Brienne, and twins, Myrcella and Tommen, and he has his entire life to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)! Thanks to everyone there who has helped me out with this fic so far.
> 
> [This is the scene from The Americans 1x01](https://youtu.be/JCzLE5XaV_4) that inspired this chapter.


	2. Foundations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me if this story is set in Westeros. I’d say it’s a Westeros that looks a lot like 1970s/80s America, with a global conflict that’s something like the Cold War, but not necessarily to do with the Seven Kingdoms/Great Houses. However, down the road, I’ll be introducing characters and other aspects (e.g. religion) drawn from ASoIaF, which would make it clear that it’s set in some version of that world, so I thought I should briefly address the issue of their last names in this chapter.
> 
> By the way, I’m going to add links to relevant scenes from The Americans at the end of chapters, to give some context for anyone who’s never seen the show. I’ve added one to Chapter 1.

They arrive in the dead of night, with two infants and four fake passports, the last in a succession of chartered planes landing on a private runway in the middle of nowhere. The flights were bumpy, the small planes weak against the turbulence, and she hopes Jaime didn’t notice how hard she was gripping the armrest. It’s the first time she’s ever crossed international borders. Now she is in a country they must claim as their own, though Brienne grew up believing it the enemy. She still believes it. 

In a few days, they move into a three-bedroom house in the suburbs, on the outskirts of the country’s capital. The size of the house is a reminder of the length of the assignment, and the _luxury_ of it as well. They are one of the first families to be assigned under the Programme, and the Centre has spared no expense. A room each for Myrcella and Tommen, once they are old enough to want some privacy. Brienne smothers a memory of a house a third the size of this one, for three times as many people; she suppresses a latent disgust for having to participate in this, this _excess_. A moving truck comes, with furniture, clothes, toys for the children, some new and some used; a car in the driveway, with a couple of years on it. It makes it seem like they have a history here, in this country. She wonders when she will begin to think of this house as a home.

Brienne tries to help the movers with some of the lifting—with her strength, it would have been a breeze—but Jaime stops her, gives her a look that says, _don’t draw attention to yourself_. She mustn’t use her body the best way she knows how. She entertains the twins instead, lets their tiny bodies clamber over her large one; she’s spent almost every waking moment with them, for the past couple of weeks, and they seemed attached enough, to her. She rediscovers the affections she once showered on two baby sisters, long dead. Except she is supposed to be Myrcella and Tommen’s mother, not their sister.

The first night, once they’ve put the children to sleep, Brienne gets ready for bed, her nerves braiding and unbraiding themselves. It's the first night they'll have to share a bed in this house. There are no… expectations of her, she knows this. It’s merely to—to make things a bit more real for themselves. Without crossing that line.

“I made sure to tell the Centre to send a bed large enough,” Jaime says, “So there’ll be lots of room for the both of us.” Brienne nods, tries not to think about why Jaime would want _lots of room_ , even though she's grateful for the gesture. She’s had to sleep alongside other officers, other soldiers, during her training. But they weren’t sleeping in a soft bed with fluffy pillows and a patchwork quilt, in a master bedroom with an en-suite bathroom that has his-and-hers sinks, in a three-bedroom house in the suburbs of the enemy state, with their infant children asleep in their cribs in the next room. She promises herself that she will get used to it soon enough.

(None of the men she has had to sleep beside had been anywhere close to golden and beautiful.)

Jaime is standing by the bed now, staring down at his prosthetic, as if uncertain what he should do with it. He looks up at her, and says, “Do you mind if I remove this?” She nods, again, wondering why he would need to ask. Surely he wasn’t expecting to sleep with that on. He unstraps it and puts it in the drawer of his nightstand. She considers, just before she drifts off to a fitful sleep, that he has chosen to sleep on the side of the bed where his left hand, rather than his right, would be between them.

Over the next few days, they visit, or are visited by, various neighbours. It wouldn’t do them any good to be secretive, if they’re hoping to assimilate. Brienne is anxious for the first couple of introductions, thinks they must look at her and Jaime strangely. She knows what she looks like, next to him; not at all the picture-perfect couple. But Myrcella smiles, giggles in Brienne’s arms; Tommen stares with a wide-eyed wonder, his little hand securely grabbing a fistful of Jaime’s hair. The neighbours coo over them, and she disappears into the background. A wife, a mother. _A perfectly ordinary family._ Brienne thinks about how the twins, all blonde hair and green eyes, make a very good distraction.

Jaime is the embodiment of natural charm, rattling off answers to the neighbours’ questions with ease. It reminds her that he must have done this countless times, with countless other stories. He gives just enough information to be conversational, but not enough to arouse too much curiosity. Exudes enough optimism about the neighbourhood for the both of them, talks about how great an environment it will be to raise the kids. Discusses the beginning stages of starting their own business, something to explain away late nights and long absences for future missions. _Lannister? That’s an old name,_ they comment. “Yes, some relation to a distant Lannister cousin, generations ago, not anyone particularly important. Our family tree is quite boring, really.”

Boring. Normal. Average. Perfectly ordinary.

Brienne starts to pick up on Jaime’s strategies, puts in an odd word here and there. One neighbour, and there was bound to be at least one, is far too inquisitive about their lives, their family histories, and _how are you planning to afford to live in this neighbourhood with two kids and a new business on the way_. Brienne is more irritated, rather than threatened, by this person’s rudeness, which she knows stems from nosiness rather than real suspicion. “We have some savings.” She doesn’t say where from. “We’re taking it easy, for now,” she states, calmer than she feels. She puts her hand, tenderly, on Jaime’s right wrist, just below his prosthetic. “Jaime fought in the war. He’s still recuperating.”

She smiles at him in a way that she hopes is sweet, unsure if Jaime would be upset that she used his body in this way. Instead, he seems mildly impressed by her trick, and smiles back. The neighbour nods, sympathetically, and doesn’t pry. No one wants to talk about the war. No one wants to ask _which one_.

* * *

One night, about a week after they move in, Jaime doesn’t unstrap his prosthetic and put it in the drawer of his nightstand. It feels odd, like something he’s failing to complete. Brienne is already getting ready for bed, a simple routine he’s almost memorised by now. Their nightly rituals. _It’s only been a week._

He turns to her. “I’m—I’m going out.”

Brienne stares at him, confused. “You’ve heard from the Centre?” 

They both know the basement isn’t fully set up with the proper equipment yet, to receive messages from the Centre. The plan was to get settled in first, for the first couple of weeks, what with the twins being so young. The Centre wanted to make sure everything was stable with their family. The Programme would stretch on for years, maybe even decades.

“No. It’s not to do with the Centre. I have—an appointment.”

“An appointment,” Brienne repeats. “We’ve been in this country less than two weeks. We don’t know—”

She stops, seems unsure of what to say next. Here they are, husband and wife, and they don't know how to communicate, not really. He thinks of all the years he spent with his cousin, completing each other’s sentences, each other’s thoughts. 

Before he can open his mouth again, Brienne says: “With the children’s mother.”

She knows. That his cousin is here in this capital, at this embassy.

“How do you—”

“Your family, back home.” Brienne hesitates. He remembers how she was with the neighbours this past week, how she started off stiff, silent, but figured out her words in her own head, in her own time. “You’re… known. Talked about.” She pauses. On the flight here, Brienne had been holding onto the arm rest, tight. He had observed the way her knuckles were turning white, thought of her holding the teacup at their first meeting. She is holding onto the bedpost, tight, now. “People… the other trainees from my cycle. They weren’t—kind to me. When they found out that I would be assigned to the Programme, with you. Coming to this city, with the children’s mother working at the embassy. They said—they said things.”

She doesn’t elaborate further, and he sighs, slides his left hand over his eyes and down to his chin. He can imagine what they must have said. It is easy to be cruel to Brienne, strong though she is in many ways. “I’m sorry,” he says, a useless thing. He isn’t sure, exactly, what he’s apologising for. Just that he feels like he should.

Brienne looks at him, and she’s—annoyed? “You don’t need to say _that_. We’re not—we’re not _really_ married.” She worries at her lip, as if she thinks that’s not what she should have said, that she should have kept up the pretence of their marriage for the Cause, even with the two of them alone in this room. “I just—for the sake of the work, and the children, I only ask that you let me know in advance. If you have any— _appointments_. A week—a day, even. Just so we can plan around it. You know we need at least one of us here with the children all of the time, and in the future I’ll need to go out at night, for work, same as you.” She pauses again, takes a breath. “I don’t appreciate being left here with the children alone. Without any warning. Even if they’re already asleep.”

He feels like a husband being chastised by his wife.

“Okay. Yes. I can do that.” He’d been wanting to tell her, actually; he’d known about this appointment for weeks now. But it seemed to him that to tell her about the appointment would mean telling her _everything_. And he didn’t know where to start with that at all.

Jaime opens their bedroom door, but just before he can step out of the room, he turns back. Brienne is staring at him, again. Suddenly he feels compelled to tell her, if not _everything_ , then _something_.

“She’s—she’s not their mother. I mean, she gave birth to them, but—she didn’t raise them, you know. That first year, before we met. She was—upset. About me. Struggling. And I was—she wasn’t sure if I was alive. Couldn’t look at the twins without thinking about it. She loves me, and our—our first son, I suppose you know about him, too—but she’s not their mother. Not Myrcella and Tommen.”

He feels like he’s said too much, in stops and starts. He’s somehow misplaced all the casual eloquence he possessed with their neighbours, these past few days. Here, in front of her, he can’t quite keep some of these truths from stumbling out. It is easy to be honest to Brienne. Too easy.

So, he pushes on, just a bit further. “You’re—you’re the only mother they’ve ever known. Will ever know.”

Then, he closes the door behind him, Brienne still sitting on the bed, the same white-knuckle grip on the bedpost.

He leaves the house, drives out into the night, out of the suburbs and into the city, to where she’d said she’d be, on that day, at that time. And she’s standing there, suffused in the warm glow emanating from the lamps in the hotel room, hair and makeup and dress and heels all immaculate as always. She purrs his name—not _Jaime_ —his real name. All he can think about is how he has missed her desperately. His other half. Cersei. The woman who should have been his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still on the fence about the introduction of a Stan Beeman equivalent into this story – if I do give Jaime (or Brienne) an FBI-agent-type neighbour friend, it’ll be quite late into the plot – but in [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3xvFkX4ljc) in 1x01, the Jennings head over to Stan’s house to welcome his family to the neighbourhood, which got me thinking about how Jaime and Brienne would try to integrate themselves on arrival.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Routines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait – The Americans doesn't show much of what happened in the first few years of their marriage, and I'm trying to believably draw out this plot and set things up so that the following chapters can just flow episodically. I wanted to keep to one Brienne POV and one Jaime POV per chapter, but this was shaping up to be almost twice as long as my first two chapters, so I’m splitting it up (at least for now).
> 
> Thanks everyone for their comments so far, by the way! I have the broad strokes of this whole story (and the next two chapters of this one are pretty much set in stone), but I’m writing as I go, so it’s good to know what works and what doesn’t, what needs more explaining etc.

The first year or so passes uneventfully, all things considered. If you had asked any of their neighbours, they would have said that the Lannisters were a young, hardworking couple, friendly enough, devoted to each other and to their children. _Seemed a bit odd to us at first, a man who looks like_ that _, with a woman who looks like_ that. _But you should see them out at the park on a sunny day, all four of them. It’s very sweet. Apparently they’re trying to start their own business now, a travel agency, last I heard._

By all appearances, the Lannisters work, raise their children, attend the occasional social gathering. Some days, it seems to Brienne that this peaceful, domestic existence is their entire reality. Some days.

Despite what Jaime had said to her that night of his first appointment— _you’re the only mother they will ever know_ —Brienne still finds herself anxious to be with the children as much as possible. She plays the part of ‘mother’ with fervent dedication, as if the twins themselves might grow suspicious and discover her true identity. To her relief, Myrcella and Tommen adore her. Though they are not quite two years old, she wonders if they too are relieved, on some level, to finally have caretakers— _parents_ —that are constant, available, affectionate. Jaime, on his part, seems to enjoy the time he can spend with them as their father. “I didn’t have much of a chance to see my first son grow up,” Jaime had mumbled to her one night in bed, just as they were drifting off to sleep. And that was all he said on the subject, at least for that first year, although he grows to be far more talkative about most other things.

They meet their handler once every two weeks at a safe house about a half-hour drive from their house. He is a dour man, at the tail end of a long career serving the Cause mostly from behind a desk (at least according to Jaime, who had crossed paths with him before). At each meeting, he runs through their missions in a perfunctory fashion, and never fails to ask after Myrcella and Tommen, though it is in a tone so terse that Brienne suspects he possesses a deep disinterest in their wellbeing. The twins, who are usually asleep by the time they leave the house, are watched over by a teenage daughter of a family friend—or so they tell their neighbours, if asked, about the mousy young woman the Centre had assigned to them. Jaime had come to call these evenings their “date nights”, to Brienne’s vague discomfort, more so at his flippancy than the implication that they might be spending those evenings at romantic dinners instead.

At the start of each week, Brienne pencils in their schedule for the next seven days on a small sheet of paper that she sticks to the inside of the hidden compartment in their basement, behind the washing machine. Every dead drop, every surveillance shift, every meeting with an agent or informant is noted neatly on the schedule in a simple code, alongside every activity with the twins, every time either one of them plans to work from home or at the travel agency—the latter of which is really just a unit in a nondescript office building that the Centre had rented for them to complete some of their more administrative tasks.

When she first started preparing the schedule, Jaime had scoffed at her, thinking it the habit of a schoolgirl. That is, until he started referencing it himself. Sometimes, he adds his own notes in his barely-legible left-handed scrawl, if he receives a call at the house or office for one new mission or another. He has at least a decade of experience on her, but even _he_ had never had to care for two infants—and keep up appearances with a wife—while in deep cover. Even he has to concede that this is a lot to manage.

Once a month, Jaime pencils in his appointments. Frankly, she thought it would happen more often, but Brienne resolves never to pry. His relationship with his cousin remains an enigma, a ghost that haunts the periphery of their partnership. The most she had done was to ask if the Centre knew about these meetings, just before Jaime’s second appointment. “I think so. I’m sure my father does. He’s probably not very happy about it, as usual.” Jaime sighed. “But he’s—he’s learned to look the other way as long as we do what is expected of us. He knows she’s not stupid enough to… We were brought up well. _Loyal servants of the Cause._ ” 

Brienne didn’t like the way he said that last part, the way it dripped with sarcasm (she actually does think of herself as a _loyal servant of the Cause_ ). She didn’t like that Jaime and his cousin could operate outside the parameters defined by the Cause and the Centre, just because the General chooses to _look the other way._ But he is her partner, even if he isn’t really her husband. He works, he raises their children, he attends the occasional social gathering by her side. He goes out for these appointments, once a month, and always returns by midnight. He somehow manages to get word to his cousin to reschedule, if the appointments ever conflict with their missions.

Hence, Brienne can ignore these—indiscretions. She lets Jaime pencil in the appointments. At the end of each week, Brienne burns the schedule. And the cycle starts again.

Compared to the brutality she had endured during her training, Brienne finds that going undercover as part of the Programme was, more or less, an utterly banal experience. She would never dare question the importance of her work for the Cause, but sometimes—as she sits in a car with binoculars watching some high-ranking official go to lunch at his favourite restaurant for the third time that week—as she sits on a park bench dressed androgynously in a baseball cap, hoodie, sweatpants, waiting for her contact to arrive for a brief and whispered conversation that might ultimately come to nothing—sometimes, she can feel a profound and all-encompassing tedium. She feels her body itch—no, _ache_ to _fight_ , a desire that is quenched out in the field only sporadically.

And so, though she reveals little in the way of true emotion to Jaime most of the time, she can only barely suppress her excitement when he asks her to train with him one evening. “I can’t fire a gun anymore,” he said, lifting his right arm up to prove his point, as if Brienne hasn’t been in the same room as him almost every night for the past three months, when he removes his prosthetic and puts it in the drawer of his nightstand. “And I still need to be able to fight, if it comes down to it. If I’m out there without you.”

The next thing she knows, they’re in the garage, arms up, ready. Seconds tick by like hours, and then she moves first, to Jaime’s surprise. Brienne sees his eyes widen and realises he must have judged her to be more reticent, defensive—which she might have been, only a year ago—but _gods, it’s been so long_ , and her blood is singing already. 

They’re in the garage the next evening, and the next, and the next. Every single evening, as long as their schedule allows, for an hour, sometimes longer, after the twins fall asleep. Jaime is clearly weaker than her, which is understandable given the circumstances, but she can still see much of the fighter in him, and she knows that at the height of his ability she would have had to yield to him more often than she cares to admit. He fights with his prosthetic attached, at first, but some sessions Brienne demands that he takes it off; he needs to be prepared for every possibility. Jaime gets frustrated, which only makes Brienne push him harder, daring even to grab his sensitive stump as a distraction, forcing him to devise new strategies that must feel alien to his body. He groans in frustration, calls her a hard taskmaster in the form of much worse names (calls her _wife_ , spit out like an accusation). But she is almost positive, as she observes him while he catches his breath, that his blood is singing too.

Brienne spends a lot of her life outside of their home sitting in a car, or on a park bench, watching and waiting. In these moments, she sometimes finds her mind wandering to her nightly sparring sessions with Jaime. She thinks of Jaime pinning her to a wall, just before she breaks free from his hold, or of how she subdues and sits astride him while he struggles beneath her. She _thinks_ she is thinking of new methods to train and push him, of ways that he could still turn his right arm into a weapon, even with its lack of a fist. She thinks of all the times they have to act as husband and wife, holding hands at the local park, his left hand on her forearm or on the small of her back at a dinner party at a neighbour’s house. She thinks of how, in the day, her flesh tenses beneath these insignificant touches meant to convey affection, almost as if her body was reacting against some innate deceit. Yet, in their garage at night, with their arms grappling and their legs intertwined and their bodies wrestling for dominance—she thinks she has never felt more alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for the sparring was inspired of course by Jaime and Brienne’s sword fight (with a teeny tiny bit of role reversal), but also by two scenes in 6x05 in which [Elizabeth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lkFBvng7uM) and [Philip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylB5EXnT3SA) spar with their daughter Paige, for reasons I will not spoil for those who haven’t watched the show.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Facades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was supposed to be the Jaime half of Chapter 3 but it evolved into something with its own theme, so I’m just going to throw the whole half-Brienne half-Jaime chapter structure out the window and just go where my heart takes me from now on. (P.S. if anyone cares about this, I went back to the previous chapters and adjusted all the tenses I messed up.)

Jaime has spent much of his life in service of those other than himself. He has, by way of obeying orders from his father practically from the womb, given himself over to the Cause for as long as he could remember. Lost his right hand for it now, while the rest of him is still required to continue. He has, at least, always _felt_ selfish when it came to his cousin, even when he couldn’t always _be_ selfish. Perhaps it was precisely because of how much the General and the Cause had demanded from him, from both of them, their entire lives. Yet, though he likes to believe that they belong to each other, he knows deep down that it is _he_ that belongs to _her_. They are not lovers; he is _his cousin’s lover_. That has always been what she was willing to give, and what he was, and still is, willing to take.

Jaime has spent much of his life in service of those other than himself, and defining himself according to this service. Therefore, in some senses, he has never truly been his own man. So it didn’t feel particularly odd when he was asked to become Jaime Lannister, just as he had been ordered to assume numerous other identities before that, just as, even with the name he was born with, he always felt as if he was someone other than himself. And it doesn’t feel particularly odd that for many of the days he spends as Jaime Lannister, he is also required to be Jaime-Lannister-disguised-as-somebody-else. A change of clothes, a pair of glasses, a wig, even the small modifications he sometimes makes to his face—these disguises are familiar to him in their strangeness. Though he has to confess that more often than not, he would much rather wield his beauty than conceal it.

In any case, by becoming Jaime Lannister, he can now spend more of his life than he ever thought possible being a father to his twins, openly so. It’s an opportunity that is, ironically, a direct result of belonging both to the Cause and to his cousin. The twins are his as much as he is theirs. Sometimes, though his fatherhood is circumscribed by the conditions of the Programme, though the woman by his side is not Cersei, he allows himself to feel thankful for that, at least.

While it didn’t feel odd to become Jaime, what _does_ feel odd, and often exhausting, is how he’s had to adapt to his work without his hand. It is a disadvantage in ways beyond simply being unable to fire a gun, though that is a huge loss in itself. Besides the years of experience he has on Brienne, he is also just—better with people. It often falls to him to establish contacts, or to get the right information from the right target, and he can’t risk all these people fixating on what has become his most identifying feature. He tries, as much as possible, to direct attention away from his prosthetic—wearing longer sleeves, or gloves if the weather allows; adjusting his posture strategically; meeting under the cover of night. He puts more effort into looking older, making his hair darker, even wearing contacts to change the colour of his eyes, anything that would make it difficult to link _him_ , Jaime, with his missing right hand.

(There are, of course, a few situations that require him to reveal much more of his body. But these people aren’t supposed to be sleeping with him anyway, or revealing the things that they do, or allowing him to take the things he takes. He finds that instilling the right combination of fear and satisfaction goes a long way, in these situations.)

To be fair, it isn’t that Brienne is entirely useless at interacting with people. She speaks passionately about the Cause, which is exactly the right strategy for recruiting agents with the appropriate sympathies—say, an impressionable student or civil rights activist. Jaime would have called this its own form of manipulation, particularly if he used this approach himself, but with Brienne it somehow feels like the most honest thing in the world. He might have called it funny, too—a spy who operates in the realms of honesty and sincerity—if Brienne didn’t take it all so seriously. At this point in his life, after all that has happened, he can no longer fully understand her devotion to the Cause. But he finds himself admiring it nonetheless, even while he thinks her naive. Admiring _her_ , in some ways.

He also finds himself wishing, at various points during their first year as partners, that Brienne would speak more to _him_. She never says much of anything, besides the most straightforward things about the twins or about their missions. (He pushes away the thought that during his appointments with his cousin, they talk little, if at all, about either of those two topics.) When Jaime speaks to Brienne—or perhaps speaks _at_ her—she responds shortly, as if the last thing in the world she wants is a full-blown conversation. Jaime knows she is quiet by nature, but he can’t help suspecting that on some level, she might be afraid of what she might say to him—about the Targaryen incident, for example, or about his cousin, or about all the ways she might think him lacking as a servant to the Cause. Afraid of her own honesty.

It is a relief, then, when she initially agrees to spar with him. Brienne speaks best with the strength of her body, he realises, awkward though she seems with her large frame in normal settings. She is her most honest self as a _fighter_. This form of honesty, this truth, she can give him wholeheartedly. Though their sessions are often painful reminders of his weakness—she is somehow equal parts merciless and considerate, as his opponent and as his trainer—he looks forward to the sparring more than he cares to admit. 

He has this in mind when he is driving back to the house from the travel agency this evening. With the fingers of his left hand drumming on the steering wheel, he thinks that even after months and months of sparring almost every night—maybe even after years—he will never tire of it. He arrives just in time to say goodnight to the twins before their bedtime. Brienne is quieter than usual, if that is even humanly possible, or maybe a different kind of quiet, one marinating in worry. They close the twins’ bedroom door, and he moves to head down to the garage when she murmurs:

“Will you—will you give me some time? I got a message. From back home.” 

“A new mission?” 

“No, not from the Centre. From _home_.” 

“Oh.” From her father, then. Jaime can’t help but think it peculiar that one might get messages from their father that aren’t just instructions. Or commands.

“Okay. I’ll—I’ll wait for you.” 

Brienne nods and disappears into the basement. In the meantime, Jaime sits on the couch in their living room and switches the television on, absently channel-surfing, waiting. He can’t help but notice that she takes much longer than she usually does with the few messages she’s received before.

Finally, she emerges from the basement. She is calm, but it looks like she’s been crying, the pale skin of her eyelids rimmed with red. He notices her too-blue eyes glistening, something sad, something precious. Her body seems frail, of all things. It is a disconcerting sight, this Brienne.

Suddenly she straightens, armouring herself, and simply says: “Ready?”

“Wait—are you sure? You look—”

“Yes," she cuts him off, “I’m sure.”

They head into the garage and begin as they always do, but a few minutes in and it’s clear that her heart just isn’t in it. “Brienne.” He grabs at her wrist with his left hand, curses his prosthetic for being able to do nothing more than palm at her shoulder. “Brienne. Stop. We don’t have to do this tonight.” 

She looks like she’s about to protest, then doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” is all she says.

“Will you—you don’t have to, but…” He wants to ask if she wants to talk about it, but she’s just looking at the ground like she wants it to open up and swallow her whole. Instead he offers: “Do you—do you need to be alone tonight? I can sleep on the—”

“ _No_ ,” she says, with more vehemence than he expects. “No. I don’t need—I’m used to our sleeping arrangements.” She makes it sound so sterile, but he supposes it is. He can’t remember more than a handful of times when they’ve touched on that bed, even accidentally.

They make their way up to their bedroom, make their way through the rest of their nightly rituals. But just as Jaime is removing his prosthetic, he hears Brienne say from behind him:

“It was a message from my father.”

He turns around, and though her legs are under the covers, she’s sitting up, back stiff against the headboard. He knows this already. She knows he knows this already.

“What did he say?”

“It’s usually the same. Updates from home. How much he misses me. But—he sounded different, this time.” She pauses, trying to select the right word, and settles on: “Worse.”

“... Worse, how?”

“He—he was sick, before I left. Sick enough that I knew I might never see him again.” She looks down at her hands. “Who knows if I’ll even receive another message.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It happens.” She sighs. “I made my choice, to accept this assignment. To serve the Cause, knowing what state he was in. And—he knew how important it was to me. I just—I just wish I could see him one last time, that’s all. But that’s not possible.”

“Well, I’m still sorry. I can’t claim to know how you feel, but I’m sorry anyway, that you’re hurting.”

She meets his eyes, confused. “What do you mean, you don’t know how I feel? It’s dangerous, what we do. What you’ve been doing. Didn’t you ever worry that you’d never see your family again?” 

“With my cousin, yes, but that was… different. Never with my father. He’s not—he’s always been the General, to me. Not a father, not like yours.” _Not someone he would ever_ miss _._

“Oh. I’m—I’m sorry too, then.”

Jaime feels an inexplicable anger flare up at her words, and dissipate just as quickly. He isn’t quite sure why. He doesn’t want her pity, and she doesn’t give it to him, when they’re sparring, even with his missing hand. But he says something so matter-of-fact about his relationship with his father and she’s _sorry_. A reminder of something, some emptiness, that he didn’t even know was there to begin with.

“Didn’t you know?” he asks, genuinely curious. “You’ve said before. My family is _known._ _Talked about_.”

“I guess—I thought it might be different.” Brienne knows she’s touched a nerve, and she’s blushing furiously. How had he never noticed that about her before—the blushing? “Thank you for—for listening,” she finally says, as if she had revealed some secret part of herself, as if _he_ hadn’t. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about things back home. From before.” She shifts her body under the covers, switches off the lamp on her side of the bed.

“Anytime,” Jaime replies. He means it, though Brienne hadn’t said much at all, tonight. Her father is sick; he misses her; she misses him; she sacrificed the chance to be with him in his last days. Those facts are hardly a burden for him to bear. He gets under the covers himself, switches off his lamp. He listens to the cadence of her breathing for a long time, until it shifts and slows, and he knows she’s finally fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s [Elizabeth listening to a message from her mother](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a04THXn115M) in 1x13. It’s what I imagine the message from ‘Selwyn’ to be, and though I didn’t want to reveal it in this chapter, I’ll transcribe it here:
> 
> “I miss you so much. I’m sure it’s hard for you to hear over and over how much I miss you, but it’s the truth. You always did insist on the truth. They brought me a picture of you this year, with your children. And husband. Your family is so beautiful. I look at it every day. You look happy. I know I’ll never meet them, but knowing you have them… that makes me happy. They are my family too…”
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Conflicts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events occur. THEY SPEAK. It doesn’t go well. This chapter also contains some description of um, a potentially uncomfortable/triggering dental situation. I’ve added the ‘Minor Violence’ tag just in case, and if you can think of a more appropriate tag, let me know.

_Shit._

Brienne grimaces as she slowly gets to her feet. Two bodies lie on the ground—two thugs who thought they could get the better of her. _They always think they can get the better of me_. Her contact is long gone now; he ran off during the confusion of the brawl, and she still isn’t sure if the two men came _with_ him, or were coming _after_ him. She doesn’t think they had much of an idea about her, or her skill; just saw an opportunity, probably.

Anyway, they’re dead now. Best to leave quickly and quietly.

She stretches her limbs, pats down her body to check that there aren’t any injuries she’s missed. Everything hurts, but not in any way she hasn’t felt before, after a fight. Besides, there’s adrenaline rushing through her veins right now, and she’s relishing it.

Then, she feels the blood trickling down her cheek, down the corners of her mouth.

 _Shit. One of them got me in the face. One of them_ bit _me._

Brienne lifts her sleeve to her face, and tries to wipe as much of the blood away as possible. She pulls her hood up, walks out onto the empty street, rounds the corner to where she’s parked the car. Checks her face in the rear-view mirror. _Shit._ It’s not that bad, but it’s bad enough that she can’t go back to the house in broad daylight. She’s in an industrial area in the middle of nowhere, so she has to drive a little while before she finds a phone booth, then dials the number for the house.

“Hello?”

“Hey. I’m going to be late tonight. Will you be fine with the kids till I get home?”

“... Yes, sure. Is everything alright? I thought you were supposed to be home by now.”

“I’m fine. I just—I got caught in the middle of something, with work.” _I just killed two people with my bare hands and left their bodies in an alley._ “I—I handled it. It’s just—” Brienne looks at her reflection in the murky, scratched-up glass of the phone booth. “I need to stay a bit longer, at the office.”

“Brienne,” Jaime says, slowly, “Do you need me to come back in—”

“ _No._ I’m fine. We don’t have anyone to take the twins right now and—” She'll have to explain all this to him later, in person.

Jaime is silent for a long while on the other end of the call. She thinks this might be the first conversation they’ve had where she’s said more words than him. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I’ll see you tonight.”

Brienne unlocks the front door a few hours later, and almost startles when she finds Jaime standing right behind it. “Seven hells. What happened to you?” His eyes latch onto the wound, the swelling and bruising where the man had socked her in the jaw, on top of biting her _on her cheek_ , of all possible techniques to choose in a fight. “ _Seven hells_ ,” Jaime says again, and lifts his flesh hand to her face, holds the tip of her chin to scrutinise the damage. “Did someone _bite_ you?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks. It’s not like it’s ruining—anything.” She waves her hand over her face, stupidly. 

Jaime whips his gaze from her cheek to her eyes, a subtle, angry movement. “Well, thank the gods for that.”

“Really, Jaime. I don’t think he sunk his teeth in that far. It should heal fine.” She’s trying not to open her mouth too wide to speak, and she’s not sure if Jaime can understand anything she’s saying. “I just need to lay low for a while. I couldn't come back while it was light out, just in case any of the neighbours saw me.”

“You told me this was just a routine meeting!”

“It _was_. I don’t think this had anything to do with the meeting at all—my contact ran off, in fact, so I’ll have to deal with _that_ later. Anyway, they’re dead now.”

“ _They?_ ” He stares at her incredulously, which makes her feel slightly offended. “You killed _them_?”

“Just two. Left them back in the alley—I was in the middle of nowhere, there were no cameras. I didn’t—I didn’t need a weapon. So there’s barely any evidence, I would say. They’re not—I don’t think they’re the type of people the cops would care about.” _Gods, my jaw bloody hurts_ , she thinks. More so than her cheek.

“You’re telling me that you killed _two men_ today, with your _bare hands_?”

Brienne doesn’t think this is all that impressive—she could easily have dealt with two or three more—but Jaime’s expression, which had thus far been some combination of rage and concern, morphs into something that tells her he thinks otherwise.

Or maybe he misses a time when he could still do that himself.

She doesn’t respond to his question. Instead, she moves towards the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some painkillers. She feels a breeze on her cheek as she does so, and it’s only then that she becomes aware that Jaime had his hand on her face practically since she walked through the door. She feels a blush encroaching from the base of her neck; tries to shake it away.

“How are the twins?” Brienne tosses two pills into the back of her throat, winces as she takes a big gulp of water.

“Fine, sound asleep. They were asking for you.” He comes up beside her, and won’t take his eyes off her cheek. “Well, asking to the best of their limited verbal abilities, though I think Myrcella is trying her level best to form something resembling a full, grammatically correct sentence.”

“She’s been doing that.” Hours after she’s killed two men, and had her cheek bitten in the process, and they’re having a conversation about the twins’ speech development. “I’m sorry—it, it hurts for me to talk, Jaime.”

“Yes. Alright. Sorry about the… interrogation. Let’s just—I’m finishing up some work. I’ll see you up there.”

She is already walking up the stairs.

* * *

Brienne stays in over the next few days, barely leaving the house except for the scheduled meeting with their handler. Jaime thinks the man is a damn fool, particularly when he offers her unsolicited and decidedly unhelpful advice for covering up the scars with make-up, as if they didn’t already know how to do that. But Brienne simply nods and thanks him like the obedient soldier that she is. The rest of the time at home, he can’t help but observe her, as if he could somehow heal her this way. She’s right, in the end—the wound is healing well enough—but he notices that she still winces, for some reason. She avoids meeting his eyes even more than usual.

He happens to have an appointment with Cersei that week, and of course _she_ doesn’t really care about Brienne at all, more so out of nonchalance than any real jealousy. So when she asks him what’s on his mind, he knows what she really means is, _why don’t I have your fullest and most adoring attention?_ Jaime just shakes his head and kisses her. He strokes his fingers across her smooth cheek, and doesn’t think of Brienne’s scars.

When he opens their bedroom door that night, just before midnight as always, he finds Brienne sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers wrapped around themselves nervously.

“Is something wrong? Why did you wait up?”

“My tooth.” She won’t look at him. “It—it hurts. I—I didn’t realise with the bite and all, but I think—he punched me in the face too, and there’s something wrong with my tooth now.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“I can’t go to the dentist—”

“Yes, I know.” _Shit._ He’s going to have to do this himself. For her. “Wait for me in the basement.”

He goes into the kitchen and pours her a double shot of whiskey, takes the glass and the bottle with him. She’s already sitting in a chair, steeling herself. He offers her the glass, and she knocks it back, swishes it around in her mouth, then— _spits it back out_.

“Brienne. You’re supposed to drink that. Not just use it as a disinfectant.”

“I don’t drink.”

“What do you mean you don’t—I’ve seen you drinking wine, at the neighbours’!”

“You’ve seen me _holding_ a glass of wine.”

“Are you _serious_?”

“I can’t risk it dulling my senses. When I’m—when we’re acting like the _happy couple_.”

“Well, you’ll want to dull your senses for what I’m about to do.” He pours her a generous amount. “Drink. _Wife_. Or you’ll regret it.”

Brienne sighs and downs the glass, cringing as she does so. For the umpteenth time, he thinks about how young she is, then realises he was drinking far more at a far younger age. It was just—Brienne.

“Okay.” Jaime grabs a pile of laundry, puts it on the table behind her. “Now lean back, put your head on this.” She’s breathing heavy now, though it’s not as if gathering up enough oxygen in her lungs could ever prepare her for this. He takes the pliers from the toolbox—a new pair, thankfully, though he wipes it down with the whiskey just in case. He’s had to do this once before, but never with his left hand. “Which tooth is it?” he asks, and Brienne takes hold of his index finger, manoeuvres it into her mouth until she finds the spot that makes her flinch.

Jaime bends over her, and she looks down at the pliers in his left hand, then up at him with those blue eyes for what seems like the first time in days, and—he can’t help it—he has to put the pliers down. He pushes her straw-blonde hair back, runs his thumb over her forehead tenderly, over her healing cheek. She bristles at his touch, _damn her_ , but he allows himself to do it a few more times, and her breathing slows.

“Ready?”

She doesn’t nod, but parts her lips anyway. He picks up the pliers again. He’s just about to reach into her mouth, when she grabs his hand.

“Wait. Just—just give me a second.”

Jaime can’t do much more than stare into her eyes, trying to reassure her with his own, though he’s not feeling quite so calm himself. After an age, she removes her hand from his and looks back up to the ceiling.

He doesn’t succeed on his first attempt, as much strength as he puts into it. Brienne strains, whimpers, doesn’t scream. He hears something crack, but when he pulls it out it’s only half of it. He drops the chip on the table.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get it the next time, I promise.”

Brienne just looks at him, a tear running down her cheek, over the scars. She leans over and spits out the blood in her mouth. “Will you—will you pour me another glass?” She swallows this one without cringing, knowing there are worse fates than too-much-whiskey, and lies back once more.

Again, he reaches towards her mouth, and _Seven above, please let me get it out_ , and again, Brienne stops his hand with hers. She doesn’t say anything this time, but then he feels her hands around his shoulders, gripping at the fabric, at the muscle beneath, at the bone. It hurts, a little, but it’s nothing compared to what she must be going through, so he lets her. Her whimpers, her breaths, are louder this time, and her fingers dig into his skin through the cotton of his shirt as he pulls with all the strength he can manage—another tear rolls down her cheek—he’s exhaling hard, now, himself—and then finally, _finally_ —

it’s out.

Brienne spits out blood again—she’s still heaving—and he offers her a clean rag from the laundry pile to stop the bleeding. Eventually, she murmurs, “Thank you, Jaime.” No, it’s not a murmur—she _slurred_. He realises that she’s tipsy, maybe even _drunk,_ from the pain and the four or five or six shots of whiskey she’s just gulped down in the last ten minutes.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, as he cleans up. Then— 

“You smell different, you know.”

“ … What?”

“When you come back from your… appointments. You smell different. Your cousin, it’s her perfume I think. It’s what your clothes—you—always smell like when you come back. When you think I’m already asleep.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Alright, so Cersei lingers on him; what’s the point of—

“It’s sweet,” Brienne continues, dragging her words out. “ _Sickly_ sweet.”

Then: “ _Sickening_.”

It's a venomous word, but Brienne says it without any venom at all. As if it's just— _fact_.

And it makes it that much more infuriating.

Jaime knows he shouldn’t push it—she’s drunk, he just _pulled her tooth out with a pair of pliers_ —but he can’t help himself.

“Oh, so we _sicken_ you, do we, Brienne?”

“I don’t give a—a _damn_ about you and her. But you're—you’re _reckless_. You—you think it’s fine, this arrangement that you have, but it’s _risky and thoughtless and—and—disloyal_.” Brienne is rambling now, and Jaime feels his anger rise with her words, with the blood she’s spitting from her mouth, with her tightening grip on that blood-stained rag in her hand. “She’s a—a known diplomat from our country, you—you’re not even supposed to _be here_. You're not even supposed to _be Jaime Lannister_. But you—you put your own needs above—above the needs of the Cause—”

 _The Cause_. Of course it comes down to the fucking _Cause_ , with Brienne. _Fucking naive._ He’s going to let her have it now, and he doesn't care if she is in too much pain and too drunk that she won’t remember a single thing he's about to say when she wakes up in the morning.

“I’ve given my whole life to the _Cause_ ,” he growls. “To our _country_. I’ve given up my reputation, still going out there, putting myself in danger, even with the things people _think that I’ve done_. I’ve given my _right hand_ , and I’m still here, aren’t I? Still serving the fucking _Cause_? You don’t have a _fucking clue_ what I’ve been through, what it’s been like for me. You—you don’t know anything about this Cause, about the people who serve it. You think serving the Cause is so noble and beyond all possible reproach. But it’s not, and unfortunately, I’m still here, with you, _wife_. So I’m sorry if I want to spend one evening a month of this farce of a life with the woman I love, the woman _you were supposed to be_.” 

Brienne is wide-eyed, now. He doesn’t think she was very drunk at all, and in this moment, he’s glad for it. He’s glad she’s heard whatever he has to say, and he can regret it later. “I should have known—” is all she can manage, and all he can think is: _she should have known, based on what?_ _On Targaryen?_ And all of a sudden, Jaime can’t bear any more judgment from her, from her mouth, out of which he’s just pulled a fucking _tooth_ because she got herself injured _killing two men with her bare hands_ , and he just—he needs to leave.

He slams the basement door behind him.

She never comes back to the bedroom.

The next morning, when he walks into the kitchen to see her silently making breakfast, he knows. Brienne remembers every single thing he said the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry? This needed to happen. It can only go up from here, in terms of their relationship at least.
> 
> This chapter was based, of course, on the scene in 3x03 in which [Philip pulls out Elizabeth’s infected tooth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYowx_hw98c&t) – one of the best scenes of all six seasons of The Americans. What I love about it is how amazing and electric Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys are without even saying a word, but I thought it might be a good opportunity for Jaime and Brienne to get some hard truths out in the open.
> 
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	6. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Six Drink Brienne, ~~Jaime needs a spa day.~~ They really, really talk this chapter, so buckle in.

They don’t speak to each other again for more than two weeks.

Well, they still _have_ to speak about the twins, and about their missions. In a way, Jaime supposes it is just like it used to be. But, inexplicably, Brienne manages to carry on these conversations even more quietly, and sullenly, and, monosyllabically than before. Hells, calling them ‘conversations’ is far too generous. She seems to possess this ability to act like nothing had happened, while somehow still emanating an energy that tells Jaime that something— _everything_ —has changed. That the ground had shifted beneath the feet of their uneasy partnership. 

Yet, Jaime can’t figure out if Brienne feels guilty, or embarrassed, or angry, or disdainful, or self-righteous, or whether she even feels anything at all about how that night had unfolded. He finds himself resenting this veneer of professionalism, control, commitment. It all smacks of loyalty, the way she just tries to keep going, and it all reminds him of how she had called him _disloyal_. After all the sacrifices he had made for her stupid Cause. It’s _infuriating_.

He has half a mind to get her drunk again just so they could reopen that minuscule channel of communication that had formed that night, months ago, when she had told him about her father. Now, they are just trapped in this silent purgatory, caught somewhere between relentless stubbornness and a genuine need to just _apologise_ , damn it—but on whose part, he isn’t quite sure.

Caught between having said far too much (too soon—too late?), and not enough at all.

They haven’t spoken in two weeks. They haven’t slept in the same bed in two weeks. Worst of all, they haven’t _sparred_ in—in almost three weeks now, including the time Brienne had taken to recuperate from her injuries. Jaime’s body feels utterly restless. One evening, he catches Brienne hovering at the door to the garage, glancing at him hesitantly. But he refuses to move from his spot on the couch, and eventually, she walks away. He briefly takes pleasure in this moment of triumph, though part of him knows that they both need some measure of release, if only through their duelling bodies.

 _Reckless,_ Brienne had said. _Reckless, and risky, and thoughtless, and disloyal._ What the fuck does she know. They’d been in this business a long time, he and Cersei. They know how to be careful. _Reckless._ Gods, it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy, that word. In those two weeks, he finds himself acting in small ways that he supposes could be considered _reckless_. Pushes one of his agents a bit too far, almost scaring the guy off. Almost sleeps with a mark he doesn’t really _have_ to sleep with, to get the information he needs, not out of any real desire but just— _just_ —he doesn’t know. He doesn’t do it, in the end, and he gets the job done, regardless. He doesn’t want to prove Brienne right.

During this impasse, the only thing that settles Jaime’s nerves is spending time with the twins. They, at least, enjoy his company, no matter what he does. No matter what he _has done_. He plays with them in their room for hours at a time, when he can spare it; brings them to the park, without Brienne. When Tommen asks for her, Jaime says, “She’s busy, baby—maybe next time,” in what he hopes is a neutral and comforting voice. He still has the presence of mind to try and keep the kids away from all that. Nonetheless, he worries that Myrcella, still months away from turning three, has learned how to shoot him looks of disapproval. _Probably learned that from her mother,_ he thinks, more than a little disgruntled.

The next meeting with their handler comes around, and it seems the same as any other week, boring as always. But as Brienne is walking towards the door to leave the safe house, the old fool holds him back. “Jaime,” he sighs. “As a courtesy to your father, I’ve not commented on your… meetings with your cousin. I trust you both to know what’s at stake. I trust that you’re both well-trained enough to take the necessary precautions. But this—whatever this is that’s going on between you and Brienne. _Sort it out._ I know you didn’t choose for her to be your wife. But you are part of this Programme, and for all intents and purposes you are husband and wife. Partners.” _Seven hells._ “I don’t care what’s causing this. But you best figure this shit out before the next meeting.”

 _The condescending bastard._ Bad enough Jaime already thought him a pathetic excuse for a handler. Now he’s trying his hand at, what, _marriage counselling_? Talking to Jaime like _this_ —scolding him like he’s some rebellious teenager?

He turns over the words in his mind for the next two days. _Figure this shit out._ Easier said than done. They would be forced to reopen the wounds that they had torn into each other that night, the wounds that had been inflicted upon him years earlier. The thought fills him with a strange and unspeakable dread.

What he needs first, Jaime decides, is a good, long soak in a hot bath.

* * *

What she needs now, Brienne decides, is a good, long cleanse in a hot shower.

It’s been more than two weeks since that night. Brienne had woken up in the spare bedroom the next morning with, firstly, a headache; then, thankfully, quite a bit less of a toothache; and, finally and most unfortunately, very vivid memories of every single thing she had said to Jaime, and he to her. She told herself to try her best to pretend she didn’t remember, but when he walked into the kitchen half an hour later, animosity percolating beneath his skin, she knew he could tell. She knew he could tell just from the way she was scrambling eggs in the pan. 

It wasn’t that she had said anything that she didn’t believe to be true, and it wasn’t that she really felt that she needed to apologise, either. She never begrudged herself her own honesty. But it was the _way_ she had said it, and the timing of it—gods, he had just helped her _pull out her tooth with a pair of pliers_ —and it was what he had said in response. How he had said it. The fury and all the—all those allusions to sacrifices he had made for the Cause. She turns the words over in her mind. _You—you don’t know anything about this Cause, about the people who serve it._ What could he have possibly meant by that? She doesn’t know if she wants to know what’s there, beneath those words. Beneath his skin.

So, they don’t talk about it. And Brienne sleeps in the spare bedroom for these two weeks, on a bed made to accommodate a single average-sized person, which she most definitely is not. She wakes up each morning in a haze of discomfort to accompany a good dose of regret, though she isn’t sure what exactly she’s regretting. After more than a year of sleeping in a huge bed, even with Jaime in it next to her, she’s ashamed to think she might have grown accustomed to all of that, given how she grew up. But now, her body is aching something deep and dull and different from those familiar aches she gets after a good fight (something else she’s been deprived of these past weeks). Her body is asking for a hot shower, and she just wants to listen to it.

When she enters the master bedroom, she feels bizarrely as if she’s trespassing. She ignores that feeling and heads straight for the bathroom, closes and locks the door behind her, briskly removes her t-shirt and bra, impatient for relief, then looks up into the mirror and—

“Don’t let me stop you.”

She spins around—simultaneously grabbing her t-shirt up to her chest with both hands to cover herself—to see Jaime soaking in the tub, _smirking_ at her.

“ _Jaime_ —I didn’t know you were back—why didn’t you lock the door?!”

“Why would I bother when you haven’t even been coming into—”

“ _Yes I have!_ When you’re—when you’re not around—”

 _Shit_. Why is she even still standing there? She grabs her bra and is about to make her escape when Jaime just _stands straight up in the tub_ and all she sees is water running down his very naked body and she’s paralysed, and then he’s _walking towards her_ and she suddenly remembers to squeeze her eyes shut, at which Jaime just says, “You have to see all of me at some point, _wife_ ,” and then she can feel him standing right next to her, between her and the door, feel the steam wafting off his _very naked body_ as he breathes in her ear, “I don’t know why you even bother wearing that,” and she can feel him tug at the bra she’s gripping far too tightly in her fist, “given the size of your—”

“ _Don’t be an ass._ ” She opens her eyes, stares at him defiantly.

“Oh, I’m the ass, now?” He puts his hand against the door; she keeps her eyes on his face. “Don’t even think about leaving. _Wife._ We are going to _talk_.”

 _This is ridiculous._ “Why the hell do we have to do it here? Like—like this?”

“This is the longest conversation we’ve had in more than two weeks, Brienne. I think this is the perfect time to talk.” Jaime walks back towards the tub—as if she’s already agreed, _damn him_ —and she quickly pulls her t-shirt back on, balls up her bra and tucks it in a corner of the counter.

“Do you mind?” he says, as he climbs back in, “I’ve been dying for this. Need to wash all that _sickening recklessness_ off my skin. I’d ask you to join me but—”

“If you’re going to be so _difficult_ then—”

“Forgive me,” Jaime interrupts her, serious now. “I’m tired of—all of this. Since that night. Let’s call a truce.”

“You need trust to have a truce,” Brienne hears herself saying, feels herself walking towards the tub. She sinks down beside it with her back against the wall, facing Jaime. He has his arms outstretched on either edge of the tub, and absurdly, it looks like he’s on a throne. A king. _A god._ She looks straight at him, doesn’t cast her eyes down into the water.

“I trust you. I think the question is, do you trust me?”

Brienne doesn’t know how to answer that question. She does trust him, mostly, but _mostly_ isn’t enough anymore. She wraps her arms around her knees, brings them into her body, looks down from Jaime to her toes gripping the cool tiled floor. Absently, she slips her tongue into the space where her tooth had been, caressing the bare gum there.

“The… arrangement with my cousin,” Jaime continues, “That’s one thing. That’s… I know it seems to you that we’re being selfish, and careless, but—she’s been my anchor, through all these years. No, my _sun_ , maybe. I’ve always—orbited around her. That’s how it—how it used to be, anyway.” Brienne looks up at that, and sees the distant look in Jaime’s eyes, just before he turns his head back to her. “And I promise you, Brienne. When we meet, we’re careful. I wouldn’t put the twins in danger, or—or you.”

Brienne grips her arms tighter around her knees. “I know. I shouldn’t have—”

“No. You had the right to question me. But I think—I don’t think you’d have been quite so… prejudiced. If it weren’t for the other thing.” Jaime flinches preemptively. “Aerys Targaryen. What… what do you know about that?”

_Seven hells. Is he actually going to—_

Brienne clears her throat. “He was one of our army’s highest-ranking officers. You—you killed him. And your family covered it up, allowed you to continue serving, without repercussions.”

Jaime pauses, and the weight of her blunt words sinks into the water between them. “Did you know—” he starts again, “did you know he had access to our nuclear arsenal?”

“Not—not specifically, but—”

“He was mad about it. Obsessed. In a way that wasn’t—it wasn’t just to show our might, as a country. He’d seen what those weapons had done, the devastation it could cause. The countless deaths, and the agonising effects on those who lived through it. We all knew it. But he—he relished it. _He wanted to be the one to inflict that devastation._ ”

Something is spreading across every inch of Brienne’s skin with each word that falls from Jaime’s lips, something she might later identify as a sort of terror. But now, she can only listen, and watch, as Jaime seems to disappear into the past before her. Even though nothing has moved—not even a single droplet of the water that lingers on his skin.

“We were fighting wars all over the world, as you know, even ones we weren’t supposed to be involved in. In the name of the Cause. And he kept wanting to do it, to unleash that power. No one—I told my father and—no one wanted to do anything to _control him_. No one seemed to believe that he would really go that far. But I knew. I knew he could do it, at anytime. He told me, I think, to hang it over my head, me, the golden son of the General. He wanted me to know he was more powerful than my father. So when we were—when I was sent with him, to one of those wars—we weren’t even supposed to be there, officially—one night, he was telling me how he could end this war. How perfect an opportunity. The way he said it, like it was all so noble, so _patriotic_ , when I already knew, he just wanted that _destruction_. He wanted to be _responsible_ for it. And I saw my chance. I had him alone—and I shot him in the head.”

Jaime is—oh hells, he’s _shaking._ Those droplets of water on his skin are colliding, accumulating, running down his arm now.

“When I came back—no one wanted to acknowledge that Aerys Targaryen was a madman. But I had eliminated an—an _inconvenient problem_ for them. I think that’s really all they saw it as. _Inconvenient._ This man, he could have destroyed entire countries. And they just… covered it up. Sent me out on mission after mission, war after war, for years and years as if nothing at all had happened—even though everyone knew that I had killed the great Aerys Targaryen, even though no one knew the truth of it. Until—until the mission that cost me my hand. And then… you.”

“Jaime…” Brienne tries to say, but it is barely a whisper. His left hand is clutching the edge of the tub, and she—she isn’t sure what makes her do it, but she reaches out and grabs it. Jaime startles, but turns his hand over, grasps hers.

_An anchor._

“I don’t want—I don’t know what I want to prove to you by telling you all this, Brienne. I just want you to know. And… it wasn’t just Targaryen. There were things I had to do, that my father had me do, over the years. Even—even to my own family.”

“Your—your son?”

“No. My—” Jaime pauses, and never finishes the sentence. He lets go of her hand, slicks his hair back. “Just—I want you to know. As much as you’re prepared to sacrifice for the Cause, as much as I’m sure you’ve already sacrificed yourself, I’ve—I’ve sacrificed more. I’ve done terrible things for it. I just mean—I’ve never betrayed it, even though I killed this one man who—who claimed to serve it too. I may be—disillusioned. But it’s the only life I’ve ever known, and I—I think I’ll die before I… I’ll never leave this life a traitor.”

“I’m sorry,” Brienne chokes out. She doesn’t know what else she can say. She shifts closer to his end of the tub, clings to its edge. “I’m sorry, Jaime. I—I didn’t know.”

Of course she didn’t. But—every word that comes to her mind, every phrase, it all feels so insignificant in the face of all these truths. _Yes_ , she thinks, _these are truths. Jaime is many things, but he is not a liar._

“I didn’t mean to question you,” she blurts out. “To—to not trust you. You have to understand. I believe in the Cause with my whole—my whole existence. I grew up believing it would make our country better, our lives better.” Gods, even her honesty feels disingenuous in the face of his, but she just—she needs to _explain_ , and she can’t seem to stop. “My family—we’re… we had nothing—barely anything. And we were poor because of—because of how it used to be, before the Cause, before our country became the way it is now, the way it wants to be. The Cause, it promises something better, something more equal. Something to fight for. And I’m, I’m a _good soldier_. I’m built for it. Maybe not as experienced as you, maybe I still have so much to learn, but it’s what I have to give, to this world. It’s—this is all I’ve known, too. And I know it’s caused you pain, but to me, it was always—hope. Even with all the struggle. And then you—you—this assignment happened, and I didn’t know the truth of it, and I’m _sorry_ —”

“I know.” Jaime reaches out to her, touching her face for only the second time since they first met. Water, cooling now, drips down Brienne’s jaw from his fingers, and she feels a droplet splash on her thigh. “I’m not—I’m not telling you this to get you to—to make you doubt it. It’s just… I’ll be spending—who knows— _decades_ with you as my partner, with you as the mother of my children. I didn’t mean to call our life a farce.”

Brienne is surprised by that—she hadn’t been hurt by that particular comment, when he said it, but she sees now that it’s important to Jaime that he correct it.

“And I… I want you to trust me,” he pleads. “I need you to.”

She can only nod in response, unable to speak now.

Jaime sinks back into the tub, relief on his face, in his body. “I’m—I’m glad we spoke,” he whispers to the ceiling.

What a trivial phrase to end the past… how long has she been sitting there, on the floor, beside him?

There’s nothing more to do now but lift herself up—she has to stretch her limbs awkwardly, which only makes her more embarrassed. Then, she walks out of the bathroom.

For the next few minutes—or hours; it could have been days for all she knows—she sits on the bed while she waits for Jaime to be done. He seems surprised to see her when he comes out of the bathroom, but she avoids his gaze as she slips by him. She gets her hot shower, finally, and has the sense that it heals much more than just a body mildly aching from being cramped into a too-small bed.

When she is done herself, and walks back into the bedroom, Jaime is already under the covers. He’s looking at her with a sort of _hope_. Brienne stands there for a moment, watching him watch her.

Then, she walks to her side of the bed, climbs in for the first time in more than two weeks. Jaime smiles at her, a gentle thing, and she allows herself to return it. They switch off their lamps, Brienne first, then Jaime. As she feels him slide himself under the covers in the darkness, she suspects he will sleep better than he has in a long time.

In a way, she supposes it is just like it used to be. Two people, a husband and a wife in name only, sleeping next to each other, never touching.

But this—something about this feels so much better than a truce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Jaime and Brienne got some rage out their system last chapter, I wanted to go for a version of the bath scene that is more open and balanced to allow them to move towards mutual understanding. There isn’t really an equivalent scene in The Americans, but 3x01 does open with [Elizabeth soaking in the bathtub](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/post/186490842870/oh-look-i-found-a-bath-scene-in-the-americans) in the Jennings’ giant bathroom.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	7. Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone gets excited by the chapter title, no, they are not gonna bang this chapter.

Brienne can’t lie—she is, genuinely, enjoying this new normal.

Ever since that night in the bathroom, things with Jaime have been—well, _pleasant_ is a suitable word, she supposes.

They are just past the two-year mark of their partnership, and there is a weightlessness now to their interactions that is, quite frankly, a relief. She finds it difficult to describe in specifics; she supposes that in real terms, their relationship hasn’t changed very much at all. But, it’s just—a feeling. A _good_ feeling.

The night he pulled out her tooth, he had called the entire assignment a farce. The night he told her his darkest secret, he had taken that back. Brienne hadn’t thought of it as a farce, not really—it was her duty to pretend to be Jaime Lannister’s wife, that was all. There’s a kind of bitterness to the word that she truly hadn’t felt, even on the days she felt keenly aware of that box in her mind where she had packed away all her doubts about him. Now, though, she thinks she understands what he meant by it—both in saying it, and in taking it back.

It had still taken Brienne a while to learn how to let her guard down around him, even just a little. But that _just a little_ was more than she had given to anyone besides, perhaps, her father. Brienne had long grown accustomed to building her walls up, and believing that those walls made her life more bearable. Now she finds herself contemplating that the opposite might be true, at least with Jaime. Considering what they have to do everyday, it feels nice to have this corner of honesty, and trust, and mutual respect in her life. It feels nice, nicer now, to have Jaime with her when they bring the twins to the park, even though they’ve been doing that for two years. Perhaps it feels nice, too, when he puts his arm around her while they’re sitting on a bench by the playground, waiting for the twins to tire themselves out. Or when she hooks her arm around his elbow those occasional times that she’s in the mood to do so. Just for show, of course. 

_Nice. Yes,_ nice _is the right word for it_ , Brienne thinks, while she’s curled up on the couch in the living room tonight, with the book she’s been attempting to read lying face down on her lap.

A key at the door interrupts her thoughts, and she ignores a strange impulse to get up from her spot to, oh, welcome Jaime home, or something. She settles for calling out to him from the couch, instead.

“Hey. You’re late, tonight.”

“Yeah, sorry. I had to go to the safe house.” Jaime walks toward the dining table just behind the couch and pulls up a chair. “I don’t really have the energy to spar tonight, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine. You look tired. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. We had a meeting, that’s all. I got—I got a new assignment. And it looks like it’s going to be a long-term one.”

“Oh.” Brienne stands up to sit at the dining table herself, leaving her already-abandoned book to languish on the couch. “How long is _long-term_?”

“Years, probably, if I can keep it up.” He takes a deep breath. “We think we have an in. With the secretary of the head of Counterintelligence.”

“Jaime.” She can’t help but lean in. “That’s huge.”

“Well, I’m not sure yet how much this woman actually knows about anything. We don’t think she has clearance for any of the top secret information. But—it’s something. A place to start.”

“What’s your in?”

“Posing as an investigator from Internal Affairs, heading a new division to oversee the Counterintelligence department. I’ll say we need her to be part of our investigation—to give me reports on the day-to-day, see if it matches that information that I supposedly already have. A precautionary measure against any leaks in Counterintelligence.”

“You’re asking her to leak information to you, in order to _supposedly_ help you identify leaks.” It seems too risky for Brienne’s tastes. “You think she’ll buy it?”

Jaime tilts his head at her, one corner of his mouth upturned. “Brienne. Are you saying you don’t _trust my abilities_?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Anyway, this woman,” he continues, that half-smile disappearing. “From what we’ve gathered, she lives alone, doesn’t have a lot of friends. Goes on dates, but never seems to see the same man more than a handful of times. It _could_ mean that she likes her life this way. But we suspect—I suspect she’s… craving a connection. And—people who need, they tend to want to feel needed too.”

He drums his fingers on the table, absently. Or perhaps not so absently—Brienne finds herself wondering, at that last sentence, if Jaime is speaking from experience. Maybe Jaime has boxes in his mind too, for things like that. But he starts up again before she can examine that thought further.

“She’s dedicated to her work, as far as surveillance can tell, based on the number of late nights. I think she’d want to believe that she’s doing more with her life. Making her country a safer place, and so forth.”

“And you think that’s enough? To carry this on for years?”

“Well. If she’s as lonely as I think…”

“Oh.” It’s what he’s good at. What he’s trained for.

(What he’s _built_ for. Golden, beautiful Jaime.)

“Yeah. _Oh._ ” Jaime sighs. “Who knows. I’m setting up a meeting for next week, so I’ll know more then. Maybe—maybe I won’t have to sleep with her. But she might require that extra little push, you know? That extra bit of obligation. A… desire to please.”

Brienne can’t help but wrinkle her nose at that. Just a few months ago, she would have suppressed the urge, nodded, ended the conversation. But she’s allowed herself to lose some of that control now, with Jaime, and he laughs.

“You’re such a prude, _Brienne_ ,” he purrs. She hates when he _purrs_.

“It’s not that I’m a prude, _Jaime_ ,” she snaps back. “It just seems to me that people who—who claim to be so patriotic, who serve their country, shouldn’t be so easily swayed by these things.”

“She’ll think she’s being patriotic by speaking to me. That’s the point.”

 _Even so_. Brienne doesn’t appreciate such weakness in a person.

All of a sudden, Jaime seizes his right arm and grimaces. “Fuck.” He pulls up his sleeve with his left hand, but before he can even start struggling to take off his prosthetic, Brienne catches his arm and unstraps it for him. These attacks don’t happen so often anymore, and according to Jaime, they happen far less often than in the months before they met. But she’s seen him in pain enough times to know how best to help him.

Jaime is gripping his forearm, his wrist, his stump. “Fuck,” he hisses again. “You’d think a hand I’d already lost wouldn’t be able to hurt me,” he grumbles. “It’s as if it’s mocking me.”

Brienne shushes him as she wraps her own fingers around his arm, and massages her thumbs into his muscles, the way she knows soothes him. “Don’t you ever shut up, Jaime? Even when you’re in pain?”

“I know you love playing the silent sister, _wife_ , but for the love of the Seven, just keep talking to me. Distract your poor husband from his cruel fate.” Jaime groans as she pushes her thumbs in deeper. “That’s good,” he hums. “You’re getting good at this.”

Brienne feels the familiar creep of a blush, and tries to will it away. Jaime’s eyes are tightly shut, at least. She scrambles to think of something to talk about, and:

“What’s it like?”

_Oh no. This is not the road I wanted to go down._

Jaime cracks one eye open, and she definitely _doesn’t_ see a twinkle in his eye as he spots her reddening skin. “What’s _what_ like?”

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Well, now I’m even more intrigued.”

Brienne knows she’s just going to dig a deeper hole for herself if she tries to deflect. “Alright, _fine_ ,” she concedes. “What’s it like—to, to sleep with someone? For a mission?”

Both his eyes are open now—and _soft_. After all this time, she is still learning how to feel comfortable with his softness; learning how to allow herself to be receptive to it, even. “Brienne,” Jaime says, his voice pitched low, “Do you mean you haven’t had to do it at all?”

“Well, I—I had to do the training, same as everyone else.” She presses her thumbs along his arm, with more force, moves them up to his wrist, imagines she is pressing the memories of that time into the depths of her mind, into another one of those boxes. “But besides that, no. You… you know this. You know I wasn’t—it’s not what I’m good for.”

A pause. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Jaime.” She almost wants to laugh. “Look at me.”

“I _am_ looking at you. You’re the one not looking at me.”

She meets his eyes, then—remembers she thought them too green for their own good, when they first met, and many times since. “I’m, I’m hardly built for that sort of thing. My body—” _my face_ , “it—it better serves the Cause in other ways.”

Jaime’s expression is something inscrutable. “It’s not because of how you _look_ , Brienne.”

She scoffs. “Easy for you to say. You’re beautiful.”

The last syllable withers in her throat. _Fuck._ The word came out before she had the chance to stop herself. If her hands were not otherwise occupied, she’d be covering her mouth now, to keep more truths ( _no, opinions—fuck, which one is worse?_ ) from spilling out. She can feel her blush deepening.

“Oh, you think I’m _beautiful_ , do you?” Jaime looks very pleased with himself, _the bastard_. She digs her thumbs even deeper then, and he grabs one of her wrists. “Alright, Brienne. You can stop now.”

She releases him and folds her arms, stares quite intently at the floor. Then, she feels something touch her cheek—his _finger_ —and it takes far too much willpower not to jump out of her chair.

“It’s not because of how you _look_ ,” he repeats.

“What—what do you mean?” she mumbles, while some part of her thinks he’s getting too used to touching her face at all the wrong moments.

“Look at how red you are. What are you even blushing about? You had your hands wrapped around my arm, not my c—”

“ _Jaime!_ ” She swats his hand from her face.

“See, you’re such a _prude_!”

She jabs her index finger into his chest. “And you’re a _pig_.”

Jaime catches hold of her finger, holds it there for a moment, before releasing it. “ _My point is_ —anyone would see right through you.” His voice is low again; she can feel it in her stomach. “I think you know much better than I do that you’re far from being beautiful—” she winces at that, still, after all these years; hates herself for wincing at it; hates that she still feels the trace of Jaime’s finger on her cheek— “But it’s more that… how should I put this. Your body, your skin, they betray you too easily. They betray your discomfort, your—hmm—your _innocence_. When you have to fight, _gods_ , you’re more than a weapon. You’re a _machine_. And I mean that in the best possible way. You’re in complete control. I wish I still had that.”

He grasps his stump, as if to say _this is why I don’t have it anymore_ , and Brienne suppresses yet another urge, to tell him how much he’s improved through their sparring. How much his prowess—even one-handed—can still make her feel alive.

“But you’re always…” Jaime feels his way to a conclusion. “You’re never anything other than yourself, Brienne. You can’t be.”

Not for the first time, and she suspects it’ll be far from the last, Brienne feels raw, split open by his words. “Maybe I’m like this because—because it’s hard to forget how to _not be me_ ,” she struggles out. “In a body like this. I don’t know if that makes sense, to you.”

She doesn’t know if Jaime will understand, doesn’t know whether she wants him to. So she pushes on, away, elsewhere: “And you know perfectly well being beautiful helps.”

“Fine. It _helps_. It makes it much easier, even when I’m wearing a horrific wig and glasses that belong on a man much older and much less fashionable.” He actually sounds slightly aggrieved, and Brienne tries not to smile at that. “I’m just saying—consider the possibility, at least, that it’s not _just_ about how you look.” 

She wants to take this statement and build a box for it; lock it away in her mind with all the others.

“And to answer your initial question. Well, it’s—I don’t know. It’s bearable, most of the time.” He’s the one staring intently at the floor, now. “I’ve had to do it on-and-off for so many years now. I guess I developed a—a kind of tolerance for it. Sometimes you just have to make it real for yourself. That’s what they taught us. _Make it real_.” Those three words seem to echo through their home, as if Jaime spoke them from somewhere quite far away. “Back in the day, it felt a little bit like I was cheating on… her. Even though she had to do it too. But she didn’t… she never… part of me thinks that maybe she actually—” 

He doesn’t seem able to complete his thought.

“You didn’t see her, this past month,” Brienne whispers. “I just—I just realised.”

Jaime shrugs his shoulders, though he shifts in his chair, as though vaguely unsettled by her observation. “She says it’s not safe, now. But she wouldn’t tell me why, exactly. I expect she’ll arrange an appointment when she next feels like she needs me.”

“Oh,” is all Brienne can say. Jaime is being oddly blasé about this development, considering that just a few months ago, he was completely enraged by Brienne’s insinuations about him and his cousin.

“Um,” she ventures, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He looks at her incredulously. “Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

“Not—not particularly.”

“Then we won’t talk about it.”

Just then, they hear a door opening upstairs, followed by two sets of footsteps, and then some very insistent knocking on what is presumably their bedroom door.

Brienne shoots Jaime a look, and calls out, “We’re down here!” Then, she stands and makes her way to the stairs, with Jaime close behind her.

On the very top step sit Myrcella and Tommen, gripping each other’s hands. Tommen is clinging for dear life to his favourite toy cat.

“Tommen had a bad dream, Mummy,” Myrcella announces.

“Did he?” Brienne picks Tommen up when she reaches them, leaving Jaime to Myrcella. “Do you want to talk about it, baby?”

Tommen shakes his head, and buries it in her shoulder. Brienne feels like she’s asked that question of one too many Lannisters tonight. 

“Tell you what,” Jaime says, walking towards their bedroom. In his arms, Myrcella hugs his prosthetic tightly to her chest. “Why don’t you both get into bed with Mummy while I wash up, and then we can all protect each other from nightmares tonight? Does that sound good?”

“Can Ser Pounce come?” Tommen asks, meekly, looking down at the cat in his arms.

“Of course he can. He’s a knight, isn’t he? He’ll protect us too.”

They deposit the children on the bed first, and Brienne heads into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Jaime steps in with a change of clothes in hand when she’s just about done.

“Your body—our bodies—they can be good for other things too, you know?” Jaime says under his breath. She can’t make heads or tails of these words, partly because he’s currently removing his shirt, and she is expending too much energy on _not_ being bothered by it. It’s another thing Jaime’s started doing in her presence these past few months, though she never returns the favour.

“Aside from all the things we have to use them for,” he continues. _What was he talking about again? Their bodies, yes._ “We… we don’t just belong to the Cause.” He motions his head back towards the twins.

“If it wasn’t for the Cause, I would never have become their mother,” she murmurs back.

Jaime pulls on his t-shirt. “Mm. Objectively speaking, that is true.”

She knows there’s a ‘But’ lurking around the corner of that statement, and she almost stays to hear it, then notices Jaime’s getting started on his jeans. _Okay, maybe I haven’t gotten so used to_ this _part._ So she brushes past him and heads out of the bathroom before he can elaborate.

Once Brienne’s climbed into bed, Myrcella lets Tommen have the prime spot of snuggling right up against her—“You’ll be safe with Mummy,” she declares—and Brienne can’t deny the warmth that radiates deep within her at such a simple sentence. None of her blood runs in their veins; she never carried them in her womb. But they’ve marked her body from the inside, nonetheless.

 _Yes_ , she thinks, as she runs her fingers through Myrcella’s hair, feels Tommen’s little frame pressed along her side— _I don’t just belong to the Cause_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I borrowed the secretary ([Martha](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6k9Tskrk6Ok)) from The Americans, but I’m not expecting her to have as prominent a role in this fic. She will pop up again though.
> 
> Jaime and Brienne’s relationship is not exactly there yet but I had [this scene from 3x05](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RDWDCltHGv4) in mind when I wrote this, and a little bit of [this from 5x08](https://theamericansgifs.tumblr.com/post/183636924724/101-508) as well.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	8. Sacrifices

The first time Jaime Lannister meets Renly Baratheon, things don’t exactly go the way he expects.

He isn’t sure what it is, initially. It’s not like Brienne didn’t give him all the background information. And it’s not that the information isn’t accurate. Renly Baratheon is one of Brienne’s earliest recruits, a civil rights activist with thinly veiled political ambitions, liberal to the bone. He’s idealistic and passionate about the Cause, or so Brienne tells him, though Jaime wonders if that’ll stick in the long run. But lucky for them, Renly currently has frequent access to two ultra-conservative brothers already in political office—one a philandering boor, and the other a religious zealot. His brothers don’t have valuable information much of the time, but Renly knows how to get them talking when they do. The bugs he’s managed to plant in their offices help, of course.

This is all that’s necessary to know about Renly. Jaime doesn’t find anything odd about any of it, until he steps into Renly’s apartment with Brienne. With the twins finally in preschool, they now have enough time to spare in the day to run a handful of missions together. It seemed like a good idea for Jaime to get to know some of her agents, just in case he ever has the occasional need for them. And so they are meeting with Renly. Black-haired and blue-eyed Renly. Suave and charismatic and confident Renly. Renly, who does too much smiling for Jaime’s tastes.

Is it the smiling? No, it can’t be. There’s something else that’s off, and Jaime can’t quite put his finger on it.

They’re in the most basic of disguises today. Brienne’s dark wig doesn’t suit her at all, but Jaime has also spent almost every night for the past two-and-a-half years with her straw-blonde hair splaying out in all directions on the pillow next to his. (He, for one, could do without this fake moustache that is making his upper lip itch.) Despite the charade, it seems Brienne trusts Renly enough to be on first-name basis, because she makes the following introduction: “Jaime, this is Renly. Renly, this is Jaime. My—my husband.” 

Jaime notes Brienne’s hesitation with interest.

“It’s very nice to finally meet you, Jaime,” Renly says, with an earnestness that Jaime suspects isn’t entirely sincere. “Brienne’s told me—well, not much, I suppose, but some.”

“Really,” Jaime drawls in reply, “Nothing bad, I hope.”

Renly just smiles again, annoying Jaime with the whiteness of his teeth.

“Nice place you have here,” Jaime observes, looking around the apartment. “Didn’t think an activist would be able to afford something in this neighbourhood.” He looks around. “And with such… charming interior design.”

Brienne very subtly elbows Jaime in the ribs, but Renly just laughs. He introduces his associate Loras, a curly-haired pretty boy who hovers nearby as Renly proceeds to give them the information he’s gathered since his last meeting with Brienne. Not much of it is useful, but Brienne is grateful nonetheless. Her skin is faintly pink. Jaime notes this with interest, as well.

There’s a part of Jaime that thinks Renly is a fool. His head is so far up in the clouds that he can’t see that he’s doing all of this not because of his allegiance to the Cause, but rather because of the chip or ten on his shoulder that he seems to have about his brothers. Not that Jaime can blame him for that, given what he knows about said brothers. Jaime supposes Renly-with-his-too-expensive-apartment can have his uses, and it’s clear that Brienne holds the man in high regard. He supposes she’s known him longer, too. So maybe he’s just being unduly harsh.

But he can’t shake the niggling feeling that there’s something about this meeting that doesn’t feel quite so routine.

“You don’t think his apartment is too nice?” Jaime asks Brienne, later. “Does he even have a job?”

“He has family money, Jaime.”

“I thought you didn’t like rich people.”

“That’s—that’s not—it’s not so simple.” She seems flustered. Jaime notes this with interest too. “I disagree with the way wealth is distributed in this country,” she rambles on, “but he inherited that place. Uses it for meetings, gatherings with other like-minded people. People who believe in the Cause.” _Ah yes. The Cause._ “He works hard for the Cause. For… for me.”

 _For her._ A fourth thing to note with interest. But he’s not in the mood for an ideological discussion with Brienne, so he doesn’t push. It’s not like he’ll be meeting Renly that often, anyway. 

The second time Jaime Lannister meets Renly Baratheon, he realises what it is.

“You like him,” he says, when he and Brienne are back in their car. 

“What are you… I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You like him. Renly. Something about you is different, around him. Softer, or… something. More at ease yet also… not so much.”

“You’re—you’re being ridiculous,” Brienne replies. “I’m his handler. He’s my agent. My friend, even. I’ve—I’ve known him for more than two years. Of course I’m different around him.” Oh, he knows this Brienne. This is _defensive_ Brienne. “You just… you just haven’t seen me interacting with other people I actually want to be around.” Oh, now it’s this Brienne. This is _regretting-the-last-part-of-her-sentence_ Brienne.

“So you admit that you _actually want to be around_ Renly. You want to _spend time_ with him,” Jaime teases, or thinks he’s teasing. “I guess he’s handsome, if you squint.”

It seems to have dawned on Brienne that the best course of action is to just stop talking and focus her entire being on driving them home. They sit in silence for the next few minutes.

“You know he’s gay, right?” Jaime eventually asks, with as much nonchalance as he can manage, staring intently out the window at the buildings zipping by.

Brienne doesn’t reply. Jaime presses on.

“That boy. The _associate_. What’s his name again? Lawrence?”

“Loras,” she mumbles, after a beat. Jaime knows that his name is Loras.

“Loras. I know I’ve only met Renly twice. But _Loras_ has been at his apartment both times even though he’s had nothing to contribute to the meetings at all. He just sits there, staring at us with an accusing look, for some reason. So I’m pretty sure that’s Renly’s b—”

“I know, Jaime.” Brienne is gripping the steering wheel.

Jaime shuts up, then. There’s a hint of a bitter aftertaste in his mouth that wasn’t there before.

The third time Jaime Lannister meets Renly Baratheon, he knows from the get-go that something is wrong.

First off, they don’t meet at Renly’s apartment. He’s suggested a deserted area of a rundown park, instead, hardly his style at all. When they arrive, Renly—suave and charismatic and confident Renly—is pale, nervous. As soon as they approach, he starts babbling.

“They—they know. My brothers. I think they know. They want to meet me—both of them at the same time. That never happens. I’ve managed to—postpone the meeting for a few days. But you need to help me. What are my options? What kind of protection—”

Brienne tries to calm him. “Slow down, Renly. Are you absolutely sure they know? How did they even find out?”

“I was listening to the recordings as usual, yesterday, and I—I couldn’t hear anything. I think maybe they found the bugs.” _Fuck._ “They called me, last night, and said they wanted to meet. Did the Centre do something with the information I gave you? They never ask to meet me, _together_. They hate each other. Something’s wrong, I know it.” Renly gulps, visibly. “And I think—I think I’m being followed.”

Jaime is furious, now. Renly _is_ a fool. “ _You’re being followed?_ And you didn’t think to tell us before we exposed ourselves by coming here—”

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure.” Renly has his head in his hands. “Will you just—help me? And… and Loras, too. If you can.” _The cheek of the man. Loras has barely done anything for them._

“Okay. We’ll get in touch with our handler, see if we can organise an exfiltration as soon as possible.”

“ _Exfiltration?_ Isn’t there something else, less, less drastic—”

He actually thinks he can _negotiate_.

“You’ve been committing treason, Renly.” Brienne is somehow able to say this in a way that sounds almost compassionate. “And we can’t risk you blowing our cover. Exfiltration is the best course of action here.”

“Okay. Okay,” Renly stammers.

“We’ll be in touch as soon as we can make the arrangements. Just stay calm and go about your day as if everything is normal.”

They call an emergency meeting with their handler as soon as they can get to the nearest phone booth, and head straight for the safe house. They explain the situation to the man, and his expression is grim.

“The Centre is not in a position to offer exfiltration right now.” 

For the first time, Brienne raises her voice at him. “You can’t—he’s been serving the Cause for _two years_!”

“Two years is hardly long at all. That’s less time than you were even in training.”

There’s truth in that, but callousness too. Jaime looks over at Brienne, at the worry etched on her face. He ignores the impulse to put his hand over hers.

“And that’s beside the point,” their handler continues. “He knows both of you. He knows your first names; he knows you’re married. We can’t trust him to keep that secret. And you’re… two of our most valuable officers.”

He paused, just before he said _two_. Jaime knows what he really means is that he can’t risk anything happening to the son of the General, even if Brienne is expendable. But if Brienne noticed this too, she doesn’t show it.

“We don’t know yet if his brothers are really aware—”

“We can’t take the risk. You’ll need to deal with it. And the boyfriend, too. The trail needs to stop there.”

The drive back is painfully quiet. Brienne is gripping the steering wheel too hard again, and Jaime thinks of her grip on the teacup when they first met, her grip on the arm of the seat on the plane, her grip on the bedpost the night he first went to meet Cersei.

When they arrive back home, Brienne walks to the kitchen counter, stands there in a daze. Jaime follows, rounds the counter to its opposite side. “I’m sorry,” he offers. He doesn’t know what else he can say. He’s lost agents before, many times over the years; it’s the nature of the job. But that’s not what Brienne wants to hear right now.

She doesn’t respond, at first. Doesn’t move. Jaime is considering whether to leave her to herself for a while, when she finally says:

“He’s the first one I’ve had to lose.”

He nods in response, though Brienne isn’t looking at him. She is staring at her hands instead, and he looks down to see her digging her fingernails into the edge of the counter.

“Does it always feel so… so terrible?” she asks.

“Not always,” he replies. “Depends on the agent. And the circumstances.”

She looks up at him then. “I just feel so… so _guilty_ , Jaime.”

“He—he means a lot to you.”

“Yes. I suppose he does.”

There’s a tremor in Brienne’s voice that she can’t seem to contain, and Jaime doesn’t expect her to say much more. But then she tells him, through that tremor: “I was… I was seventeen when I signed up to serve the Cause.”

“Yes,” he acknowledges uselessly.

“Seventeen,” she repeats. “Never had a boyfriend. Never—never had anyone who wanted to be. And they put me with you. We—we didn’t know each other at all. When we got here, I was twenty-two years old. I was living in a strange house, in a strange country, with a strange man. I only knew—I only knew those things about you, and it was only later that you told me the truth.”

She stops to take a breath, and reaches for the jug of water on the counter. Jaime turns to grab her a clean glass from the dish rack, and places it in front of her. “I was already Renly’s handler by then. Had been for a year,” she murmurs, as she pours. When the glass is full, she sets the jug down, but doesn’t lift the glass to her lips.

It sits there on the counter, a silent witness.

“When I first met him,” she begins again, “he was passionate about the Cause. He was passionate about—about everything. In a way that… in a way that you weren’t. In a way I needed someone to be, in my life.”

Brienne seems to come back to herself, then. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all of this.” 

“It’s alright,” Jaime assures her. “Keep going.”

She nods, and wraps her fingers around the glass. Still, she doesn’t drink; just rotates it with her fingers. “When I recruited him,” she continues, “he didn’t even want anything. He just _believed_ , like I did. He was the first person I felt I could really talk to, in this country. And I knew he was—I knew he had Loras. But it was the first time I had a mission that… that didn’t require me to use my body as a weapon. I could just be _me_. I didn’t even need to be Brienne _Lannister_.”

Jaime ignores the vague sting he feels in his chest when she says that. 

“I could be the person that had given her whole life over to the Cause. That was enough for Renly. And what little he could give me, his friendship, it was enough _for me_. So yes, you were right, that time in the car. Maybe part of me does feel something for him. And now—it’s my fault that—”

“I’ll do it,” Jaime exclaims. It’s the only thing he can think to do, in that moment. “I’ll deal with it. We’ll get the Centre to send someone else to help me. You won’t need to be involved at all.”

“No, Jaime.” She brings one hand to her forehead, pushes her hair back, grips the strands in a tight fist. “He’s my agent. He’s my _friend_. I, _I_ got him in this mess. This is—this is _my_ responsibility.”

“Brienne—this isn’t your fault. These are just… the risks we take with what we do. It’s not—the responsibility isn’t _just yours_.”

He feels stupid, pleading for the chance to do something like this. He walks around the counter, puts his hand on hers, the way he’d refrained from doing in their meeting just now. She pulls her hand away— _there’s the vague sting again_ —and turns her head to the other side.

“I don’t know, Jaime.”

He brings his hand to her arm now, as gently as possible, feels her stiffen at his touch. “We’re partners, Brienne. Let me do this for you. Will you let me?” 

Brienne says nothing for a long time, and he readies himself for her next round of protests. Then, she hangs her head, and breathes a word so softly he can barely hear it.

“Okay.”

The fourth and last time Jaime Lannister meets Renly Baratheon, he kills him.

A few hours later, two bodies buried in a secluded wooded area on the other side of the city, Jaime returns home.

In the living room, the television is on, though there’s no broadcast at this time of the night. He walks over to find Brienne asleep on the couch, her long body pressed up against the back of it. The remote is lying by her belly, so he reaches down to pick it up, and switches off the television. She stirs then, sensing his movements perhaps.

“Hey,” Jaime whispers, as she blinks her eyes open. “Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s fine,” she whispers back, looking past him at the clock on the wall. “I think I only fell asleep half an hour ago.”

He sits down on one end of the couch, at her feet. “It’s—it’s done. Both of them.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t move.

“Okay,” he echoes. “I’m—I’m going to go clean up. I’ll see you upstairs.”

“Wait,” Brienne says, just before he can get up. “Will you—will you stay with me awhile?”

Her request surprises him—she’d never asked that of him before—and he finds he can’t do anything but nod in agreement. She adjusts her body so she’s on her side, sinks further into the couch. It’ll be tight, but there’s just enough space for him, he thinks. He lies down and wraps his arm around her waist, brings himself in close.

Brienne shuts her eyes, and inhales, deep. She must be able to smell the sweat and dirt on him, and who knows what else, although the kills were clean enough. Maybe she _wants_ to be able to smell it. Maybe she wants a comfort that is also a torture.

He can give her that, if she wants it. He leans his forehead in to touch hers, and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I’m sorry. I promise we’ll be back to some sweeter stuff next chapter. 
> 
> Renly is very loosely based on [Gregory](https://theamericans.fandom.com/wiki/Gregory_Thomas), a former civil rights activist whom Elizabeth has an affair with back in the day. Jaime and Brienne’s conversation about her feelings for Renly is blatantly ripped off from [this scene in 1x03](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5h0uCjvJAQ) in which they discuss Gregory. And the ending is sort of based on [this scene from 2x05](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAL-afou0UQ), but just... imagine they have a bigger couch.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	9. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Myrcella unwittingly becomes the wingwoman to her dumbass parents, and maybe Jaime is not so much of a dumbass after all. (Also I’ve decided the secretary/Martha is Pia now.)

In the weeks after Renly’s death, Brienne doesn’t quite know what to do with herself.

She still goes through the motions of her everyday life, puts up a brave front with the kids, and with Jaime too. She gently reminds her other agents to be careful, hopefully without spooking them too much. But she misses Renly. She does. She misses their conversations, their debates; misses the warm dependability of their regular meetings. She doesn’t quite know where to put her grief, or her guilt. She finds herself wondering if it’s the guilt that outweighs the grief; thinks perhaps it does, and doesn’t quite know what to do with that knowledge.

What was Renly to her, in the end? He was her agent, and she had called him her friend. She had called him her friend just as she was mentally preparing herself to _kill him_ , before Jaime stepped in. But in hindsight, she realises she hadn’t told Renly much about herself at all. They had shared interests, and it just so happened that those shared interests were so tightly interwoven with the very fibre of her being that it felt like she was giving so much of herself over to him. As much as he could accept, anyway.

Yet, she told him very little about Jaime, and even less about the children—not even their names—and of course she couldn’t compromise her other missions by revealing any information about them.

In hindsight, it wasn’t Renly that knew all these things about her, about her life.

Since the morning she had asked Jaime to hold her on the couch (since the morning after Renly’s death), some state of paralysis had descended upon them both. There is no longer any of that effortless friendship they had managed to cultivate, none of the intimacy she had learned to let herself enjoy. The rare times they do spar, it feels… it doesn’t feel as natural as it used to be. Brienne doesn’t quite know how _this_ happened, either. She is giving herself space to grieve, she reasons. And Jaime just happens to fall outside the boundaries of that space, for now. She isn’t sure whether she had pushed him there, or if he is waiting there of his own volition. She isn’t sure where she wants him, exactly.

Jaime hasn’t met his cousin in six months, though she doesn’t know if this is permanent. But he sees Pia—the secretary—once a week, far more often than he ever saw Cersei. Recently, a couple of times, she notices that he comes back smelling of a different perfume. The scent is something more muted, less floral, but it’s there nonetheless. 

It’s for work. She knows it’s for work. But when she opens the secret compartment in the basement, when she looks at Jaime’s markings on the weekly schedule she still diligently prepares, she finds there’s something inside her she has to numb.

Then, one day, while she’s driving the twins home from preschool, Myrcella decides to ask her a wholly innocent question. Brienne hopes she gave an adequate answer, but it weighs on her after. She contemplates her daughter’s words for a night, worries far more than seems proportionate for something so innocent, so _trivial_ , and comes to a conclusion by morning.

As she and Jaime are getting ready for the day, Brienne gathers the courage to broach the subject. She is sitting at the dresser with her back to him, but she can see his reflection in the mirror. It’s as safe a position as she can manage in their bedroom, for a conversation like this. She studies her fingers intently, nails picking at each other.

_Just say it, Brienne. Tell him what Myrcella asked. Tell him—_

“We need to touch more.”

It comes out too blunt, a stone in her belly regurgitated in the form of five words.

Out of the corner of her eye, in the mirror, she sees Jaime practically swerve to face her. He’s only buttoned half of the buttons on his shirt.

“What?” he asks. She tries not to read anything into it, beyond a request for clarification.

“We need to touch more,” she repeats. “In front of the kids.”

It feels so silly, to formally request to _touch more_ , and only in the presence of two children they have been raising together for more than three years—almost four now. In their bedroom, in the basement, in the living room late at night after the kids have gone to bed, in all those secret places where it is just them alone—they don’t _need_ to touch there at all. She remembers all the times Jaime did, anyway. A finger on her cheek, chaste, or… 

Before Renly, Brienne knows Jaime would have been teasing her by now. “Oh, really,” he might have said, in a suggestive tone, “I see my wife is propositioning me.” But it’s been weeks of this strange impasse between them, so instead, he just says: “Why? Why… now?” 

And with those words, a panic rises in her that she doesn’t fully understand, a fear that he might not even bear to touch her more than is necessary. She breathes in, pushes that feeling away; she doesn’t want to examine it too closely, or at all.

“Myrcella asked, yesterday. Why we don’t hug or—or, or kiss—like the other parents. Maybe she’s seen them, or—I don’t know. I didn’t know what else to say, so I told her that we do, just not so much in front of her and Tommen.”

Brienne forces herself to turn around and face Jaime, who’s still standing there, shirt half-buttoned. “She didn’t seem convinced. You know how she is. So I—I gave it some thought. And I think it would be less suspicious if we... touched. More. For the kids.”

Her proposal hangs heavy in the air for what feels like an age. Then Jaime just says: “Okay. Sure,” and finishes buttoning up his shirt, still looking her way.

 _Okay. Sure._ As if it is all so easy. As if they hadn’t spent that morning on the couch so many weeks ago, their bodies pressed against each other, his arm around her waist and his forehead touching hers. As if they hadn’t spent all the weeks since in this bizarre discomfort that she doesn’t know how to dispel. She supposes it _is_ easy, for him, given all he’s done for the Cause. Easy to make it real. _Bearable._ That was what he had said, on another night, much longer ago.

She stands to leave the bedroom, get started with the kids, get started on breakfast, something, anything. She doesn’t want to know why her heart is beating faster than usual. 

Before she can even get to the door, Jaime catches the crook of her arm. When she turns back toward him, that same hand falls to her hip. He’s never touched her on her hip before, not for this amount of time. The small of her back, at most. Not _here_. 

Jaime inches his face closer to hers. _What is he doing?_ He kisses her on the cheek first, slow. _Okay. This is fine. He’s done this a couple times before, in public._ He backs away and she thinks she might be free, that the kiss was some kind of one-off gesture of sympathy, but his hand is still on her hip, and he is looking right at her, straight into her and through her. Then—

Brienne can’t move. Jaime has kissed her on the lips, something delicate, and soft, and yet it felt like neither of those things, and she can’t possibly move or think or speak ever again. He pulls away, and already the memory of the kiss, the ghost of it, is at once a blank and the absolute, unmitigated entirety of her existence. _The things I do every single day—the things_ he’s _done—and yet_ … 

Jaime waits, smirking at her—no. He’s smiling. Oh, it feels like he hasn’t done that in a while. It seems genuine, sincere. His kiss had seemed—

“Why—why did you do that?” she asks, after a long while. They are both still standing in the same place, his hand warm on her hip.

“You just said we should touch more.”

“I meant—when the children can see. Other people. Not, not here. You don’t have to.” _You don’t have to kiss me in the bedroom we’ve shared for years as husband and wife._

“Hmm,” Jaime hums, and she feels its vibration as if it had been in her own throat, “Consider it practice.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. His finger lingers, too long, on her cheek, not for the first time, not even for the third or fifth or eighth time. Yet it feels nothing like all the times he’s done it before.

And then the moment passes. Jaime is the one to leave the room first, and all Brienne can think is that he must have been able to feel her skin—her lips—burning beneath his.

* * *

In the weeks after he dealt with Renly and Loras, Jaime doesn’t quite know what to do with Brienne. 

Since she asked him to stay with her on the couch that morning, she hadn’t requested anything of him again. She doesn’t even bring up Renly at all. He had allowed himself to entertain the thought that something about their partnership might change, but he finds himself regretting ever letting his mind go to that place. He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it wasn’t _this_. Brienne seems to go about everything in a sort of haze, though he can see that she is trying her best for the kids. It’s not that she’s been crying over Renly—not that Jaime’s noticed, anyway—but he often sees her standing at the sink, or sitting on the couch, _that couch_ , and he thinks she is somewhere very distant.

Cersei hasn’t contacted Jaime in a long time, and truth be told, he finds that he doesn’t care quite as much as he might have three years ago. Once upon a time, he would have dropped everything to be with her. These days, he finds that he isn’t sure if he’ll make the effort to meet her, assuming she even contacts him again. But he needs to see Pia every week, now, and though he tried to keep things simple and professional between them—tried harder than he would have in the past—he has had to start offering her something else.

After, when he’s back in bed, in the bed that he shares with Brienne, he turns his head to look at her sometimes. If and when she’s awake, she’s always staring very intently at the ceiling, refusing to look his way.

This won’t do—whatever it is that has settled over him and Brienne, this fog that they can’t seem to find their way out of. Jaime spends a week deliberating over the best course of action. When he makes a decision, he sends a message to his father. It’s a simple thing, for someone in his position, and he thinks the General will acquiesce. All he has to do is wait.

Then she had asked if they could touch more. And then he had gone and kissed her. 

It was only after he left their bedroom that it dawns on him that she hadn’t even blushed. As if she didn’t even have the presence of mind to do anything other than—not breathe. Jaime thinks it best to leave it for a day, but the next morning, while she’s preparing breakfast in the kitchen, he wraps his arms around her from behind. She turns her head towards him, and she must be trying to push down her shock, he can see it in the way her eyes flash. He takes the opportunity to kiss her again. In front of the kids, of course, as she had specified.

Jaime hears Tommen giggle, and he looks over at the dining table, where the twins are sitting, and staring. “Why d’you do that, Daddy?” Tommen asks, and Jaime just shrugs. To think their own son should think it strange that he might want to kiss his wife. Myrcella seems puzzled by this new development too, but keeps her opinions to herself.

So he kisses Brienne when she’s making breakfast the morning after that. And the next. And the next. On the third morning, he thinks Myrcella looks pleased, and far too knowing for a child who’s yet to turn five.

Yet, _Brienne_ is never the one to kiss _him_. She barely even kisses him _back_ , when he initiates. He’s utterly perplexed—she’s the one who asked in the first place—and fine, maybe she’s been making an effort to touch his arm or his back, and even adjusts his hair a few times. Maybe her fingers linger a little too long in all these places. But even when _he_ kisses _her_ , she doesn’t seem to know quite how to respond. He just wishes she would—

he doesn’t quite know what he wishes.

Finally, a couple of months later, he gets the message from the Centre. 

When they are next driving to the safe house for their scheduled meeting, Jaime is nervous with anticipation. He doesn’t know how Brienne will react, though at this point he’ll accept any kind of reaction from her, positive or negative. Just to be safe, though, he thinks he should give her at least some indication of what awaits them at the house.

Before they get out of the car, he grabs her arm.

“Brienne, wait. Before we head in there, there’s something you should know.”

She looks at him quizzically. “What’s going on?”

“I… I made an arrangement. With my father.”

“... Oh.” Brienne bites her lip. “What kind of arrangement?”

“You’ll find out soon. When we head in.”

“You’re scaring me a little, Jaime.”

“No—no, it’s not anything to be scared of.” Jaime exhales. “I know—I know it’s been difficult for you, these past few months. And I know, with Renly, you lost someone you could—talk to. And I know it’s been hard, to do these meetings with someone who—who ordered you to manage that situation in the way we did.” _Gods, why am I speaking in euphemisms?_ “I just… I wanted to do something for you. So I—I got my father to switch our handler. To someone you might find more familiar.”

Brienne furrows her brow. “Who could that possibly—”

“He goes by Goodwin, here, so I’ve been told. But, well. Never mind. You’ll see soon enough.”

Then, he opens his car door, and steps out. Brienne follows suit, but he can feel the confusion emanating from her as they head towards the house. When they walk in, there’s an older man seated at the table. He turns his head to greet them, and Jaime thinks he looks far too compassionate for a decently-ranked officer of the Centre, far kinder than almost anyone he’s ever encountered from the Centre throughout his career. For a moment he wonders if this was a mistake, but he looks over at Brienne and—

Oh, this is the happiest he’s seen her in _months_.

“Hello, Brienne,” the man who goes by Goodwin says. “It’s been a long time. You look well.”

“G-Goodwin, right?” Brienne asks, stumbling over his unfamiliar name, and the man nods, and smiles. Without taking her eyes off the man, she whispers, “Jaime, how did you—?”

“You told me once before,” he whispers back, “a year ago, maybe more—about the only officer who was ever kind to you during your training. I just—I thought you might need a friend.”

He can’t help but feel that he should have rehearsed this. He feels like he’s introducing a new toy cat to Tommen. But Brienne just smiles, and maybe he sees a wetness about her eyes. He thinks, for a second, that those eyes are shining brighter and something more astonishing now, absurdly so under this harsh fluorescent light. Then, she turns away, and Jaime is sure there is a spring in her step as she walks to the table, to Goodwin.

After apprising him of their current operations, Jaime finds he is perfectly content to sit through a meeting that is comprised largely of reminiscing between his wife and their new handler. Come to think of it, this is probably the most enjoyable meeting he’s ever had with a handler, even though he doesn’t have a clue what they’re referring to half of the time. It’s just—it’s nice to see his wife so happy. It’s really nice.

Just before they are about to leave, Brienne wraps Goodwin—their _handler_ —in an embrace. Jaime thinks he’s seen everything, now— _an agent hugging their handler_ , and not even begrudgingly. So he offers to give them some time alone, and tells Brienne he’ll wait at the car. “There’s no rush,” he says, and she smiles at him again. It makes him want to—

No. Now isn’t the time for that.

In the end, she doesn’t take that long. He thinks he only waited about fifteen minutes or so before he sees her emerging from the house.

“That was fast. Did you have a good talk?” Jaime asks, leaning back against the car, his left hand pawing restlessly at the side mirror.

Brienne nods. “Yes. He told me…” She trails off. “Well. It was good,” she says. “Enlightening.”

“Big word,” Jaime teases. “Now _I’m_ looking forward to some one-on-one time with Goodwin.”

Brienne laughs. She actually _laughs_. How long has it been since he’s heard that sound? “He likes you, Jaime,” she replies, still chuckling. “Though I’m not quite sure why.”

_Oh, she’s teasing me now. Good. This is really good._

“It’s my dashing good looks, Brienne,” he quips. “Works on everyone.”

She bites back a smile. 

“Thank you, Jaime. Truly.” 

“You’re not mad that I pulled some strings? I know you don’t like that.” Jaime is feeling—he thinks the right word might be _bashful_. He can’t remember the last time he felt that way.

Brienne shakes her head. Tentatively, she raises a hand to his cheek, strokes her thumb across it, and Jaime lets himself lean into her warm palm. He gazes back into her eyes, the blue of them dark and hypnotic in the dim orange glow of the street lamps. He had told her, once before, that she was far from beautiful. But in this moment, in this light, he thinks she could almost be—

He loses the end of that thought, but he doesn’t quite care. Because right then, of her own accord, Brienne Lannister kisses Jaime Lannister for the very first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, it’s not like Jaime can believably give her a sword and armour in this universe. So he gives her a whole ass human being that he drags up from her past and from another country, because he’s Jaime Lannister and he’s extra.
> 
> Although I didn’t write the conversation between Brienne and Goodwin, [this scene between Philip and their handler Gabriel from 3x09](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AEDXXNu7IA/) was on my mind. The context and tone would have been completely different of course. It’s a beautiful scene though, so I might circle back to this dialogue eventually.
> 
> I’m going on another little break again after cranking out 3 chapters in less than a week. The next one is going to be a doozy. As fluffy as this chapter is, I just want to remind everyone that this fic will keep circling back to painful and brutal places and explore how trauma plays out with multiple characters, which I’ll try my best to manage with sensitivity. I’m looking at about 20ish chapters so we’re barely at the halfway point. But the aim is to write a satisfying ending for J/B, so I hope you’ll stick with me, even if you might hate me sometimes.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	10. Renunciations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but maybe this chapter will make up for it, because it’s the longest one yet. There’s a certain flow to it that makes it difficult to break up, so even though it might stick out like a sore thumb compared to the other chapters, I thought it was worth spending some time with this arc. It’s not as structured as my usual, but I wanted to explore how learning to be vulnerable with and committed to another person can be a scary and convoluted process. Hope it comes across.

Brienne gazes up into the blue sky, feels the golden sun caressing her skin, inhales the scent of the green grass. She wonders how her life with Jaime came to this point. She wonders if any amount of training could have prepared her for this.

Jaime has brought the twins to get some ice cream, so while Brienne valiantly does her duty as Guardian of the Picnic Blanket, she thinks back on the two weeks or so that have passed since she kissed him on the street outside the safe house. This barrier—kissing Jaime—had once seemed insurmountable. Even _inconsequential_ , in the earlier years of their partnership. Now, she’s crossed it, and—

a switch didn’t go off inside her. 

This has nothing to do with her feelings for Jaime. No, this is about what she can do with these feelings. With feelings that are—dare she even think it— _returned_. Some part of her had assumed that if this ever happened for her, everything would magically fall into place. And perhaps she does discover that she can accept Jaime’s easy affection, that she can reciprocate, or even initiate it. She can smile into kisses good morning and goodnight; lean into a palm on her back, into arms encircling her from behind; stroke her thumb across his cheek, just as she did that night when she had first kissed him, stroke it across his jaw, his brow. She is learning to do all of these things.

But beyond that barrier are yet other barriers. There are things that she finds that she has to unlearn, too, and she doesn’t know how. She finds that her body is wary, even when she doesn’t want it to be. When it feels lips, or hands, on itself—lips and hands that seem to be searching, wanting _more_ —her body will not allow it. It pulls itself away from a kiss, breaks away from an embrace, though her mind thinks, perhaps, that she might want to stay. That she might want whatever _more_ is. Whatever comes after. Or maybe it’s the other way around—maybe it’s her body that feels the desire, and her mind that needs to escape.

It’s all confused. She wants to break free from this body of hers, and submit to it at the same time.

Out of nowhere she feels a weight on her belly, her ribs, and then Myrcella’s head is blotting out the sky. Two sticky little palms clap themselves on either side of her face.

“Where did you go, Mummy?”

“I’m right here where you left me, honey,” she replies. She feels Jaime sit on the blanket beside her.

Tommen’s face appears in her eyeline, upside down. He’s standing over her, still messily eating his ice cream. “We were calling and you didn’t say anything,” he says, then stops to take another lick. “We said ‘Mummy’ really loud and lots of times and you didn’t move or anything.”

“Yes,” Myrcella says, sagely, removing her palms to cross her arms, “I think you were very far away, Mummy.”

Before she has a chance to respond, she feels something cold drip onto her forehead. Without thinking, she reaches a finger up to wipe it away and— _ah._ It’s ice cream. Ice cream that has leaked its way down Tommen’s cone and claimed her as its victim. The twins dissolve into peals of laughter at the sight, and the sound is so infectious that she can’t help but laugh too. How did this become her world? Two children with the man sitting beside her, in the park on a sunny day, a drop of melted ice cream on her forehead?

“Everything alright?” Jaime asks, softly, as he leans over to wipe her forehead with a paper napkin, and her finger.

She nods, and smiles, trying to reassure him. He smiles back, leans down even more, and kisses her. He tastes of vanilla ice cream.

That night, as they spar, Brienne asks herself how she could have ignored the sheer intimacy of their interlacing bodies for all this time. She knows the thrill of a fight, and their sparring is something beyond that now. Maybe it has always been beyond that, and she’s only just allowed herself to recognise it, this proximity between herself and Jaime that is both intoxicating and terrifying. She tries to block it out of her brain, to focus, to imagine the man before her, over and under her, isn’t Jaime-whom-she-kisses. But the harder she fights, the harder she pushes her own body and Jaime’s, the more she feels herself on the edge of some precipice. She doesn’t know if she wants to back away from it, or take a running start and throw herself off. She doesn’t even know what the solid ground represents, and what is down in the abyss.

(If she hadn’t been on the edge of this precipice, maybe she might not have reacted like she did, afterwards.)

They’ve gone into the living room to cool off, and Jaime sits himself down on the couch with a sigh. Brienne is walking by to settle herself beside him when she feels something snake around her waist and pull backwards. Her mind blanks; next thing she knows she’s locking Jaime’s left arm on his chest with one hand, her other hand fisted in his collar, pushing him into the couch.

“What are you _doing_ , Brienne?” 

“What are _you_ doing? What the hell was that?”

She lets go of him, like she’s suddenly realised he’s made of hot coals, but Jaime stays in place, looking at her in shock.

“I thought I might let my wife rest a while in my lap, that’s all.”

 _What?_ “Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’m too—” 

“Too _what_?”

Brienne doesn’t know how to fill in that blank. Even if she does know, she’s not sure that the word she has in mind is the right answer.

“Whatever it is you think you are,” Jaime continues, eyes narrowed, “May I remind you that you have had no problem— _I have had no problem_ with you pinning me to the floor in the garage for _years_? I’m pretty sure I’m strong enough to—”

“That’s _different_ ,” she bites back.

“How so?”

“It’s just _different_ , Jaime.” Why—why is she seething? She needs to go. She needs a shower right now.

Brienne is halfway up the stairs before she realises Jaime has been calling out her name.

He enters the bedroom just as she’s coming out of the bathroom, freshly showered. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at her, and _shit, she’s ruined everything over something so trivial_. Why did she have to react in that way? What’s wrong with her? She feels like she’s about to cry and that only makes her feel worse, and stupid, and in over her head with _all of this_. She just wants to go to sleep, wants everything to go away.

She’s turned away from Jaime’s side of the bed, eyes squeezed closed, when she feels him slip under the covers beside her, hears him shut his prosthetic in the drawer as usual. Then, she feels him run his stump up her arm.

“Brienne. Are you still awake?”

She turns back towards Jaime, forcing herself to face him.

“What was that about?” he asks, softly.

She can’t answer. All she can say is, “I’m sorry.”

He reaches his left hand up to her forehead, teasing the strands of hair there, then pauses a finger right between her brows.

“I wish I knew more about what was going on up here.”

The truth is, Brienne wishes the same.

Jaime runs his finger down to the bridge of her nose. She knows he can feel the bumps where it broke in two places.

“Will you tell me what happened here?”

Brienne nods. This, at least, she can do. She tells him about the time, as a child, already much taller and bigger than all the other kids, she got into a fist fight with three boys who were taunting her, and beat all of them into the dust, stood over them as her nose bled profusely. She’s proud of that one, she has to admit, and she thinks maybe Jaime looks proud of her too. 

Then, she tells him about the time, in her first year of training, when she knocked out a male cadet a few years her senior, in front of her entire class. But this time, she doesn’t tell him why the fight started. She doesn’t tell him all the events that led up to that point, and all the events that happened after. She thinks it’s too much. She thinks maybe she’s both too much and not enough for Jaime at the same time. 

So Brienne gives him this truncated story, this truncated self. It is all she can offer.

A few days later, after a silence of almost ten months, Jaime receives a message from his cousin.

* * *

“When does she want to meet?” Brienne asks.

“Three days from now,” Jaime replies. “In the evening.”

“Three days from… We’ve already planned that interrogation with the driver. If we don’t get that done, we’ll have to find another way to get into the facility.”

He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “ _That’s_ your only objection to this, wife? _Scheduling_?”

She maintains her blank expression, and ignores his question. “I suppose we should be done by then. I’ve already arranged for the kids to go to a friend’s after school. We can pick them up and you can drop us off here before you meet her.”

“Fine. And even though you seem so _wholly uninterested_ in the fact that I’m meeting her, I thought maybe you should know that I’m ready to call everything off for good. It’ll be the last time I see her, and only to tell her it’s over.”

Brienne worries her lip, the only trace of emotion she’s deigned to betray throughout this entire conversation. “Okay. G-good. I’m glad.”

“Are you? Really?”

He didn’t mean those three words to come out sounding like that, all acidic. But they did.

“I am, Jaime. I’m… happy.” _Like someone put a gun to her head and made her say it._ “But I know she’ll always be a part of you. How could she—how could she not? How many more years have you had together?” 

It’s true—he knows it’s true. It’s precisely because it’s true that Jaime feels seized by this, this fervent need to cut all of Cersei out of himself and lay it at Brienne’s feet; show her he can be whole, without his cousin, with his _wife_.

Instead, he says nothing.

“Don’t you look at the children and—don’t they remind you of her?”

Something in Brienne’s tone tells him she’s decided on an answer already, an answer that he never gave her. “No,” he insists, adamantly. He is speaking the truth, even if Brienne won’t believe it right this second. “No. They remind me of you.”

At that, Brienne reaches over to bring his face to hers. He thinks maybe she does it only because she thinks she should. He presses his lips into hers anyway.

Of course, the interrogation turns out to be a fucking disaster. Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong, short of them getting caught, and now the guy is dead and they do have to find another way into the facility anyway. But that is a problem for tomorrow. Now, now they have no time to get the twins, and for Jaime to drop Brienne off at home before he meets Cersei, and they’re in the middle of fucking nowhere so it’s not like Brienne can just get a cab, even if that was a safe and untraceable option.

“You’re going to have to come with me.”

“No.”

“You don’t have a choice. I can’t leave you here. We get to a phone booth, call to say we’re caught up with work and we’ll be running late to pick up the kids. But you’re going to have to come with me.”

“I don’t want to _see_ her.”

“And I don’t want you to attempt to _walk_ home from here or something equally stupid. Get in the damn car, Brienne.”

They arrive at the address Cersei gave him, which turns out to be a rundown motel by the side of the highway, not at all like any of the hotels or safe houses they used to meet at in the past. There are only two other cars parked there; a man is sitting in the driver’s seat of one of them.

Jaime turns to Brienne. “Come in with me.”

“Jaime.” She avoids his eyes. “Please.”

“Come in with me,” he pleads. “Don’t sit here torturing yourself imagining what I’m doing in there with her. I know that’s what you’re going to do.”

Brienne has no response to that. She gets out of the car without saying another word.

When Cersei opens the door a crack, she’s more haggard than she’s ever looked. There’s something wild in her eyes, distressed, and he can’t help but feel a twinge of pity, and some echo of the love he felt for her for such a long time.

She pulls him into the room and he drags Brienne along with him, his left hand holding her right in an iron grip.

“Who the fuck is this? Why the hell is she here?”

Cersei is speaking in their native language. She’s hardly ever done that in this country, besides calling him by his real name.

“My wife. Brienne,” he replies, in their native language too. He considers it an answer to both questions.

Cersei is looking Brienne up and down with haughty derision. So she hasn’t lost that, even in her state.

“The one playing mother to my children,” she finally says. 

_How dare she._ She hasn’t displayed a single shred of negativity, or even concern, about this arrangement up till this moment. But Jaime doesn’t want to argue with her, so he just tightens his grip on Brienne’s hand.

“What exactly do you want?” he demands. “After so many months?”

“Are you upset about that, now? I’ve waited for you for longer and you know it.”

“You knew full well how to entertain yourself while I was gone. Don’t think I never found out.”

Cersei raises her hand to strike him, but he refuses to move. He’s prepared to accept it—it’s not the first time—but then Brienne grabs Cersei’s wrist with her free hand.

“Don’t you dare touch him.”

It’s the first time Brienne has spoken in their mother tongue in his presence, and of all the things to come to mind in this moment, he thinks its the best sound he’s ever heard.

“Tell this _cow_ to let go of me,” Cersei snarls at him, though her eyes flash at Brienne.

“Not till you agree not to lay a hand on Jaime,” Brienne says. It is definitely the best sound he’s ever heard.

“ _Fine_. I won’t _lay a hand_ on your precious _Jaime_.”

Brienne lets go, and immediately Cersei’s two hands go up to his face, soft and sensuous at the same time, like she always used to do. He can feel Brienne trying to wrest her hand free from his in panic, but he won’t let her go. They’re trapped now in this perverse _pas de trois_.

“You have to help me,” Cersei implores him, her tone now shedding all of her previous bitterness, “they’re sending me back.”

“What? Why would they do that?”

“I’ve been—I’ve been running these missions and—and it all got so _messy_. I’ve been… in contact with someone in Counterintelligence here and—”

“ _What the fuck_.” Jaime shakes himself free of Cersei. “Did you betray us?”

“ _I told the Centre all of this._ I was running missions for both sides and it got _messy_ , and now I can’t give either side what they want and they’re sending me back—”

“What did Father say?”

“Uncle doesn’t give a shit about me. You’re the only one he’d bend over backwards for.” 

Jaime doesn’t think that’s true at all. He thinks the full story is far more complicated than Cersei is letting on. “And what am I supposed to do about all of this?”

“ _Come with me_. We can defect. There’s a huge settlement package, and we’ll be protected. We can have the life we’ve always wanted. You can bring the kids, I’m sure.”

Brienne grips his arm with her free hand when she hears this, and he places his prosthetic over it.

“I’m not leaving my family,” he spits at Cersei. “And I’m no traitor.”

“ _I’m your family_.” 

“I have kids—a wife—”

“I just told you, you can bring the kids—”

“I can count on _one hand_ the number of times you’ve asked about them in the past four years. Why do you even need us?”

“They won’t—they won’t help me until I get them what they want, but I don’t have it. I can’t get it. Maybe if you tell them about the Programme—”

“ _What?_ ” Both he and Brienne exclaim at the same time. “What have you said to them?” Jaime snaps.

“ _Nothing_. I’m not stupid. I don’t have the security clearance to access any of the proof, I don’t even have any idea what missions you’ve been running. But maybe if you come with me—if you give them evidence about the Programme, maybe—”

“ _Are you insane?_ ” So she just needs him as a bargaining chip, and she was ready to destroy his life for it. “The fact that you even _mentioned_ it—Fuck. I’m not doing any of that. I’ll—I’ll send a message to Father, but that’s all I can do for you. I was coming here—I was coming here to end things. So just—just go _home_.”

Jaime never would have thought that this would be the last image he’d have of Cersei. She begs him—she’s never begged him in her life—here in this cheap motel room, and he thinks she might be crying actual tears, but he’s enraged, he can’t believe she wanted him to blow their cover, blow up his entire life with Brienne, and Myrcella, and Tommen. _How dare she._

When they finally manage to leave, it takes all of his energy to resist slamming the door behind him. He is still holding onto Brienne’s right hand; her left is still gripping his arm.

As they walk towards their car, Jaime nods to the other car and whispers, “Do we need to worry about the man over there?”

“One of ours. I’ve worked with him before.”

Sure enough, the man gets out of his car and walks past them, towards Cersei’s room. Brienne gives him a barely perceptible nod.

“We should still send a brief report to the Centre tonight. We can send it from home, call a meeting with Goodwin tomorrow.” The words are firm, pragmatic, but Brienne’s voice is shaking beneath them. “We need to be upfront about what she said, or we’ll all get dragged into this. And they should know she suggested revealing the Programme.”

“Yes. Okay. Fuck.”

Her left hand moves up to his shoulder. “You can write the report, if you want. If you need to—tell them what she said in… in your own words.”

Jaime is so angry at Cersei right now that he might write something far harsher than Brienne ever would. “No,” he tells her. “You should do it. I trust you to be fair.” 

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t. It was all her.”

She strokes his cheek to reassure him, but he can’t quite feel reassured at this moment. 

They drive away from the motel in a tense silence. At the next red light, Brienne simply says: “I’m—I’m glad you chose us.”

She leans over to kiss him, and at least this time, it doesn’t feel like she does it just because she thinks she should.

It’s late, and the twins are already asleep by the time they pick them up, so they put them straight to bed once they get home. “I’m going to change,” Brienne murmurs, when they close the twins’ bedroom door, “and I’ll write up the report. Are you sure—”

“I’m sure. I trust you.”

“Okay.”

She disappears into their bedroom, and as the door shuts, the full weight of the evening crashes down on Jaime. Gods, he really, _really_ needs a drink. He heads down to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of whiskey, then sinks himself into the couch. He tries not to think about what might happen to Cersei, back home. He thinks, instead, of the ten thousand different ways he could compose a message to his father, plead some leniency for his cousin, the last thing he might ever do for her. Somewhere in the background, Jaime hears Brienne come down the stairs and go into the basement.

He must have drifted off to sleep, after, because the next thing he knows Brienne is standing before him. 

“I’ve sent the report,” Brienne says, very formally, and he half expects her to append the statement with “sir”, half expects her t-shirt and sweatpants to morph into a uniform before his very eyes. “It’s short, but should suffice. I’ve sent a message to Goodwin, too.”

“Thank you.”

Brienne stays rooted to her spot. She lifts one foot and slides it down the Achilles of her other leg, wobbles slightly as she does so.

“Jaime…”

“Yes, Brienne?”

“Jaime,” she begins again, and he wonders if she’s spent all the hours since the motel preparing a speech in her head. “There’s only so much I can give you right now,” she manages to continue. “The things inside my head, and—” One hand sweeps awkwardly across her body. “It doesn’t mean I don’t… feel. You know that, right?” 

“I know.” He leans back into the couch, gazes up at her as he takes a sip of his drink, only to realise there’s nothing left in the glass.

“I just need some time. I—I don’t know how long.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaime replies, then realises that could sound flippant, or resigned, and he’s not either of those things. Not with Brienne. “And I don’t mean—”

“I know. From—from what happened today.” 

There’s something different about her, something he’s never noticed in her before. She takes a deep breath, as if to ready herself. Then, she moves forward and takes the glass from his left hand, puts it down on the coffee table behind her. 

He’s about to ask her what she’s doing when she puts one knee down on the couch, with her calf running parallel along his left thigh. Then, she plants the other knee on the outside of his right, her hands grabbing the back of the couch on either side of his head to stabilise herself, and Jaime finds that he can’t speak for the fact that Brienne is _straddling_ him on their couch, her torso stretching up above him. Her white cotton t-shirt—or wait, maybe that’s one of _his_ —is clinging to every muscle of her, every slight curve.

She looks down at his right hand, thinks for a moment, then proceeds to lift it up so she can unstrap his prosthetic. She places it on the couch beside them.

“Rules,” she whispers, hesitantly, still holding onto his stump. Jaime just nods. He’s not entirely sure, but he thinks his mouth might be hanging open. Brienne takes his left arm now, her fingers encircling both of his wrists, and gingerly places his left hand and his stump on her ribs. “Here,” she drags them down her sides, to her hips, “till here. And my back. But not my front.” She brings hand and stump up to her neck. “Anywhere from here up, too. And… and with your—your mouth.”

 _Mouth_. Not just _lips_.

She puts his hand and stump back on her hips, places her palms on his cheeks—somehow it doesn’t feel at all like the way Cersei had done it just hours ago—and lowers her own face down to his.

“That’s all I can give you tonight,” she says. “Is that enough?”

“Yes,” Jaime breathes, and he reaches his left hand up to her cheek too, and for those few seconds that they are locked there he loses himself in her eyes, their irises planetary above the faint galaxy of freckles that dusts from cheekbone to cheekbone, across the vaguely crooked bridge of her nose.

And then, her lips meet his. At first, it is just like that night outside the safe house, or those soft kisses they’ve shared in the days since, in the car just now, but then she is parting her lips and then his tongue is following hers, and he lets her lead, fumble, experiment, fail, it doesn’t matter, nothing else matters except all the points at which their bodies are connected in this moment. He moves his flesh hand to her back, grips the muscles that ripple there, traces his stump down her side just like she showed him, and back to her waist, and back to her hip again, slips it under her shirt where it has ridden up, sketches his stump across the skin of her spine. She breaks from his lips (his _tongue_ ) to gasp, but she doesn’t stop him—he is still following her rules, technically; she said nothing about over or under her shirt—and he takes the opportunity to bring his mouth to her neck, suckles at the skin there, at her veins, up to her jaw and along it, listens to her short breaths, her inability to complete his name, feels her fingers grasp his hair, his skull. His left hand is still on her back, relishing the subtle twists of her shoulder blades, and his mouth is making its way back to hers now, but before it can get there she dips her head to his neck instead and returns the favour. Unlike his embarrassing, overzealous hunger, she is timid instead, tender as a result, and patient, kissing up his jaw, to his cheekbone, the corner of his eye, allowing her own lips to linger.

“Move towards me,” he hears her distant and close at the same time, whispering into his ear.

“Hmm?”

“Move towards me,” and he’s not sure exactly what she wants, but he shifts forward, more than happy to bring himself closer to her, and then she lets out an exasperated sigh and gets up, and he may or may not have let out some kind of whine in protest, and she says, “Hold on, let me just—” and then he realises she is trying to find a way to get comfortable, and _good, she wants to do this for a while_ , but it’s taking too long to figure out, and he says, “Brienne, stop.”

She looks at him in alarm, and he knows she thinks she’s done something wrong, and he says the only thing he can think of to assure her, which ends up being: “Bed.” And now she’s even more alarmed, it wasn’t the right thing to say after all, and he hurriedly follows up with: “Same rules. Just—just more comfortable. More space.”

Good gods. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to speak in sentences longer than two words for the rest of his life.

“O-okay,” she agrees, and suddenly they’re both scrambling up the stairs, only remembering to muffle their urgency as they pass the kids’ room, and then they’re on the bed, the back of his head resting against the headboard, one of Brienne’s legs wrapped around his waist, the other stretched out to the side, over his thigh.

She presses her forehead to his, as if it would give her strength. As if it would give strength _to him_.

“Same rules,” she repeats.

“Same rules.”

Later, he will think of all the ways in which Brienne’s rules have changed, throughout the years he’s known her. He will think of how they might change, still, in the years to come. Now, though—now, he will follow all her rules to the letter if he has to, follow their maker. This is the choice he made today, back at the motel with Cersei, and the choice he made when he killed Renly Baratheon, and maybe—maybe he even made it as far back as when he told her about Aerys Targaryen. And if all Brienne can offer him in return are these rules—Jaime will gladly, gladly take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations! You’ve reached the no-more-Cersei checkpoint. I kind of made her an unhinged version of [Nina](https://theamericans.fandom.com/wiki/Nina_Krilova), and so did Nina absolutely no justice. Her arc is one of the most powerful in the series, but it was essentially running independent of Elizabeth and Philip, so it wouldn’t have worked for this fic.
> 
> Besides that, this chapter is such a mish-mash of so many random parts that I don’t know which scene to even link. Picnic/couch/bed scenes are all me though, so you know who to blame if it did (or didn’t) work for you.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	11. Exorcisms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me holding up a big red warning sign to say this is probably the most potentially triggering chapter I’ve written yet. Some slight spoilers ahead just to give everyone a heads up. This chapter is based on the very first episode of The Americans, and it’s revealed that Elizabeth was raped years ago during her training. This is NOT the story I wanted to write for Brienne, and there is no outright sexual assault/non-con mentioned in this chapter. However, to make the plot make sense, I still needed to make the abuse she suffered in book canon much more acute (I added a tag for Psychological Trauma). I did not write a detailed flashback, but she does confront her demons head on in this chapter.

Something isn’t right. Brienne doesn’t know what it is, but there is something about Goodwin’s expression that is making the goosebumps rise on her skin. It reminds her of— 

“As you know, since the incident with your cousin,” Goodwin glances at Jaime, “the Centre has discreetly encouraged us to be more… cognizant… of the activities of our own agents.” He puts a folder down on the table. “We’ve received reports that one officer has been, well, exploring his options. He’s been here about the same amount of time as you, doing mostly grunt work, so we don’t think he actually has much information of value. But the Centre would like to avoid any potential fallout should he successfully defect.”

Goodwin slides the folder across the table towards them, but doesn’t lift his hand off it.

“Brienne. You should know that this person is… someone you encountered in the course of your training.”

Her entire body stiffens. She knows exactly whose photograph she will find on the inside of that folder.

“What does that mean? Someone you encountered?” Jaime asks her, cautiously, as he pulls the folder from underneath Goodwin’s fingers. He flips it open on the table. 

She can’t look at it, can’t seem to find her voice.

“He goes by Ronnet, here. Ronnet Connington,” Goodwin explains. “You should have all the information you need regarding his whereabouts and routine. The Centre wants him back by next week. Bring him to the address stated there, and notify us. We’ll call back with the handoff location within the hour.” 

Brienne can hear Jaime flipping the pages beside her, but she still can’t turn her head his way. “Seems like we’ll have to do this late,” she hears him reply. “We’ll need someone to come round and take care of the kids. They should be asleep by then, but we can’t leave them alone.”

“We’ll send someone,” Goodwin agrees, then looks from Jaime back to her. “You’re okay to do this?”

_Wait—I just needs a few more seconds—_

Jaime slaps the folder shut. “Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” Goodwin says. “I believe that’s up to Brienne.” 

“I’m fine,” she replies, coldly. She’s fine. Everything is back in control now. “We’ll get it done.”

In the hallway on their way out, Jaime catches her arm. “Is there something I should know about this guy?”

Brienne can only give him the little she’s given him before. “He—he was the one that broke my nose. The second time, in that fight. The one I knocked out.”

“That’s clearly not the full story.”

Brienne wrests her arm from his grasp. “It’s the truth,” _just not the whole of it_. “Let’s just go home, okay?”

She opens the door and walks ahead to the car. 

For the next few days, Brienne can feel herself retreating into herself. She spends so much effort keeping everything at bay, desperately rebuilding walls in her mind, constructing more boxes in which she can put all those existing boxes of memories that she packs away into the corners of her brain. She tells herself she’s being professional. But she doesn’t let Jaime touch her at all, and barely speaks. They’re back to that again. _She’s_ back to that again.

Even though it seemed like it might never arrive, the night does come, in the end. Just a couple more hours — she just has to keep everything together for a couple more hours. Maybe she’ll tell Jaime, after. Maybe she won’t have to tell him at all.

They grab Ronnet, struggling and three-quarters-drunk, in the parking lot of a dingy dive bar. He screams incoherently to no one in particular. No one who would care about an incoherent drunk screaming outside of a dingy dive bar, anyway.

“I know you’re not allowed to kill me,” he slurs, from the back of the car. “The Centre won’t like that.”

So he knows then. He’s guilty, _the fucking traitor_.

Brienne stuffs a balled-up sock in his mouth in response, pulls a pillowcase over his head, zip ties his wrists together.

They arrive at the address Goodwin gave them, a house secluded enough that they can drag him the short distance to the front door without anyone noticing. But when Jaime tries to call the Centre, nobody picks up. He tries again and again for ten minutes straight. No answer.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Obviously,” Brienne snaps, spitefully. Jaime just stares at her.

“Hold on, I’ll go check something,” he mutters, and leaves her alone in the house with _that man_. She occupies herself by calling the Centre. Still no answer.

A few minutes later, Jaime opens the door and motions for Brienne to come out onto the porch. “I turned on the radio in the car, to listen to the news,” he says, in a low voice. “Seems like we have a full-blown diplomatic incident on our hands that managed to explode at the _perfect fucking time_. I think we’re in the middle of a communications blackout.”

 _This can’t be happening._ “Right now?”

“Yes, Brienne, _right now_.”

“What the fuck do we do then? We can’t stay here forever.”

“Get him in the trunk. We have to bring him back home.”

 _This can’t be fucking happening._ “Have you gone mad? You want to bring him home where he’s within _spitting distance_ of our children?”

“I like this as much as you do, okay? We don’t know how long the blackout is going to last. Could be days. We have to bring him somewhere, at least for tonight.”

_Days._

When they’re back, the agent watching the sleeping twins sent off quietly, they open the lid of the trunk to check on Ronnet. Jaime has a box of juice—a box of juice meant for the _twins_ —to hydrate him for the night, but as soon as they remove the pillowcase and sock, the man _throws up_. Bastard. _Scum_.

“Seven fucking hells,” Jaime exhales. “Not just a traitor but a drunk one, and we’re stuck with him.”

“I’ll get a wet cloth.”

Brienne puts all of her energy into wringing the water out of the rag and into the kitchen sink.

When she steps back into the garage, she sees Jaime crushing the empty box of juice in his hands as he glares down into the trunk. 

“... I know you,” she hears. Ronnet must be running his mouth off again. “They’ve sent _you_ to g-get _me_. I feel _so_ important. What was it we used to call you, b-back home? I suppose it trans… translates as… as King… s-slayer. Hmm, doesn’t—doesn’t quite have the same… ring to it.”

Brienne makes her way round the car to the trunk. She can do this. This is all just part of the job, what she devoted her life to. She runs the cloth across his face, rough; digs her fingers into the material so she doesn’t have to touch his skin. 

“It’s… it’s you,” Ronnet says, finally recognising her. “I thought you were a man,” and he laughs, cruelly, a sound she thought she had buried. “Not—not for the first time. But it’s you.” 

And then— “ _Whore_.” 

Another sound she thought she had buried. 

She snatches up the sock, ready to shut him up again, but she can’t get to him before Jaime grabs the edge of the trunk. “What the fuck did you just call her?”

“Why are you so mad, Kingslayer? You’re f-fucking _her_?” Ronnet laughs, a cackle, a dirty sound. “So she’s the Kingslayer’s Whore, now. My s-sincere condolences, I know from… _personal experience_... how difficult that must—”

Jaime punches him, hard, right into the floor of the trunk.

“Stop!” Brienne pushes the sock back into Ronnet’s mouth and slams the trunk closed. “Jaime, that wasn’t _necessary_!” _He’s messing everything up._ She’s trying to just get the job done and he had to get so impulsive—she barely has a fucking handle on _anything_ — _this man is lying in his own sick in the trunk of our fucking car, in our fucking house_ —

“He was insulting you!”

“So what? It doesn’t mean you had to do _anything_ —”

“I’m not going to apologise for trying to defend my—” _No, no,_ she can’t hear it, she has to cut him off before he can even say the word.

“Just because you call me that all the time—it doesn’t mean it’s real!” _It’s just a joke. He calls me that as a joke, he won’t ever see me that way._ Even after everything that’s happened? _Even then. Even after all of that._

Brienne feels paralysed by the utter impossibility of it all. She feels Jaime’s hand on her shoulder. She’s standing in the living room now. When did she get here?

“Brienne, what—where did that come from? What the hell is going on with you?”

“I—” and she can’t explain, she has no words and too many of them, she wants to say she’s sorry and she regrets it and _please, let’s just forget that it happened and go back to how it was before_ , before Goodwin slid that folder across the table, _I’ll be whatever you want me to be_ , and then everything is coming back, every single memory of that time, how Ronnet, back when he was not Ronnet, had come out of nowhere with sweet words and roses and a proposition, and she had said yes, and it was only a little bit because she was flattered, because he was the first man ever to pay her any attention, but it was mostly because she was afraid of what would happen when it came time for her to start _that part_ of her training, and she wanted to at least have that control, that choice, her first time, and here he was, and he said he wanted her, and she was stupid enough to believe that it was true, and then when it finally happened it was painful, and awkward, a pain and an awkwardness that she had agreed to, that a girl who looked like her was taught to expect in the darkness, and when he finished she thought, _well at least that’s over and done with_ , but it wasn’t, it wasn’t at all, because he went and told _everyone_ , how much of an _ordeal_ it was for him to do it, and then she found out it was all part of some stupid bet, and he won, and she was not the prize, she was the challenge, the _obstacle_ , and then all the cadets started calling her _whore_ , as a joke, because they knew and she knew that not a single one of them would fuck her, _whore_ , they’d call her when it was just the cadets, and it was just them a lot of the time, and then the captain came around and told her she wasn’t even going to need to do _that part_ of her training at all, and he never told her why, but she knew it was because of how she looked, it was because they called her _whore_ , it was because she said yes to Ronnet, it was because later she had fought him because she was just so _angry_ , and yes he had broken her nose but she had knocked him out cold and she thought it was _over and done with_ , but now this man is in her house, in her house with Jaime and Myrcella and Tommen, this _traitor_ , and then she remembers that she had lied to Jaime that night when he first told her about Pia and said she had done _that part_ of the training after all, but it was a lie, and the truth is if she hadn’t thrown all of herself into the rest of it, if she hadn’t become the fighter she is today, if she hadn’t done so well in every other aspect except _that_ , the truth is if Jaime didn’t already have Myrcella and Tommen, if it had been reliant on her needing to be _fuckable_ , they wouldn’t have let her in the Programme at all, and maybe when they called her _whore_ it’s the way Jaime calls her _wife_ —

“Brienne, stop, please—”

And Jaime’s arms are around her, and everything is wet, why is everything wet? Oh, she’s in the shower now, and her arms hurt, her back, her stomach, her thighs, and oh, she remembers wanting to scrub all of her skin off her flesh with her bare hands, amidst all of that, and she’s not exactly crying but she can hear the sound of her breaths from some faraway place, and yet she still can’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. She leans her head on his shoulder, the cotton drenched and sticking to his skin and to her cheek, and she spots the trail of clothes she left on her way to the tub, and no—no he can’t see her like this, not yet, but he already has. And the only way for him to not see her is for her to hold him closer, so that’s what she does, she holds onto Jaime for dear life. She feels him reach out behind her to turn off the shower, and then they just stand there, in this ludicrous embrace, the water evaporating off her skin, until her breaths finally slow.

When Jaime eventually helps Brienne out of the tub, she can still barely move. He’s the one who has to help towel her dry, and as he draws the towel tenderly across her body, she despises this and feels comforted by it at the same time. She feels him lead her into the bedroom, pull a t-shirt over her head, drag her underwear up her legs, and her sweatpants. Then he sits her down on the bed, and he disappears from her sight, and some part of her thinks maybe he’ll be gone forever now. But he comes back into view, and he’s in a fresh change of clothes himself, and he sits down beside her and puts his arms around her again, and he pulls her back onto the bed. She draws her legs into herself, foetal, and she’s so, so, so tired…

The next time Brienne opens her eyes, the sun is just starting to come up. Jaime is running his fingers through her hair.

“Morning.”

She turns around to face him, and whispers back: “Morning.”

“I tried calling the Centre. Still nothing.”

“Okay. He… he stays then.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Brienne shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” he replies. After a while, he says, “You know, I used to have these terrible nightmares. About Targaryen.”

“I remember.” Her voice cracks, and she realises she is still trying to find her speech again. “It happened a few times, our first year,” she manages.

“Oh.” He runs a thumb over her cheek. “I never knew I woke you.”

“I… I didn’t know what it was at the time. And we weren’t—we weren’t really talking. I didn’t feel like I could ask.”

“Well, they’ve stopped now, more or less. Or they’re less… violent. I think it was since… that night I told you about him.”

“Oh.”

The implications hang in the space between them, unstudied. 

“I need to ask, Brienne. You don’t have to tell me everything. But did he… hurt you?”

“No,” she whispers, alarmed. She needs to give him _something_ , and she won’t have him imagine the worst. “No. Not in the way that you mean.” She pauses. _I need to give him something._ “But I did… sleep with him. He’s—he’s the first. The only one.”

Jaime’s jaw clenches. Brienne knows she’s given him more questions than answers.

“But he hurt you, in some way. Some way that made you… react.”

“Yes,” Brienne concedes. “But it’s—it’s complicated. It’s more than just what he did to me. It’s—it’s him being in our house. With the kids. It’s the betrayal. Of the country I worked so hard for in spite of…” There’s no word for it. In spite of _everything_. “And it just makes everything from the past—it makes it all even worse.”

Jaime doesn’t reply. His thumb is still stroking her cheek, and she can see it in his eyes, how he seems to be absorbing everything she reveals and doesn’t reveal. Then—

“Brienne. I’m going to tell you something, and it’ll be your choice what you want to do with this information.”

“What… what do you mean?”

He sighs, and his hand slips from her cheek to rest on her neck. “You know that when he goes back. You know that if— _when_ he’s found guilty of treason. You know what they’ll do to him, right?”

Brienne says nothing.

“No matter what, it won’t end well. No matter how long it takes.”

She nods, slowly.

“We don’t know how long the blackout will last. We don’t have a plan. And we’re authorised to make our own decisions in the event of a blackout.”

He doesn’t spell it out. Brienne knows exactly what he means.

“That’s—that’s all I wanted to say. It’s your choice.”

They go about the rest of their day, just like any other. It’s the weekend, at least, so they can get by without using the car for the day, since there’s no need to drop the kids off at school. There’s chores to be done, and children to entertain. Brienne lets Jaime take responsibility for the task of giving Ronnet another box of juice. All he says when he returns is, “He’s sobered up.” 

That night, after they put the twins to bed, Brienne calls the Centre from the phone in the kitchen, one last time. She lets it ring, and ring, but nobody picks up. She looks at Jaime, and shakes her head. Then she hangs up and goes into the garage, alone.

When she opens the trunk, Ronnet jerks, wide-eyed with fear. So he knows how to be afraid of her now, with all the alcohol out of his system. The trunk smells of piss. They’ll need to do something about that. Ronnet is making muffled noises, but she refuses to take the sock out of his mouth. She doesn’t want to hear his voice ever again. She just hauls him out of the trunk, without even breaking a sweat.

There is only one thing on Brienne’s mind, but she won’t say it out loud. She doesn’t want to give this man the _satisfaction_ of hearing her speak. As she pushes him into the wall, as she closes her fingers around his windpipe, as she hears the snap in his neck, she thinks, she _knows_ , she is not the Kingslayer’s Whore. As the body before her slumps to the floor—Brienne allows herself to believe she is Jaime’s wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t hate me for writing a panic attack as a 558-word-long sentence. I really wanted to write about Brienne’s trauma from Brienne’s POV in a very visceral way. More importantly, I hope the chapter was convincing, especially her decision at the end. Yes, I know Ronnet wasn't part of the bet, but he's the grossest.
> 
> Anyway, just watch the whole first episode of The Americans if you want to know more about the inspiration for this chapter. The Ronnet-equivalent, Timoshev, is much less of a belligerent drunk, actually successfully defected, offers that as an option to Philip, and even revealed the Programme-equivalent (known as Directorate S), though the FBI didn’t believe him initially. But the most important change I made is to have Brienne kill Ronnet herself, which I absolutely wanted her to do as a means of ‘exorcism’ (which obviously doesn’t mean her issues disappear overnight). In The Americans, Philip kills Timoshev, the key being that he chooses Elizabeth over defection, which is not really the story I’m telling here with Jaime.


	12. Explorations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you’re still here with me after the rollercoaster of the last chapter. This is the chapter where we can all just pretend nothing bad happens and they’re just two people realising that they’re the most honest and human versions of themselves with each other. Also, it’s very very very long and very indulgent, because it felt cruel to cut it up. Oh, and I upped the rating to E :) First time writing smut; it was an ordeal filled with many questionable Google searches.

When Brienne pulls the car into the garage, Ronnet’s body sunk by now to the bottom of the harbour, Jaime is standing in the corner, waiting. She gets out of the car and walks over to him, slips her arms around his waist, hooks her chin over the crook of his neck.

“We’ll need to clean the trunk,” Brienne mumbles. It’s the only thing she can think to say at first. “Tear out the lining and replace it. That’s probably the safest thing to do.”

“I have a guy. He’ll do it, no questions asked. I’ll bring it over to his shop tomorrow after I drop the kids off at school.”

She wasn’t planning to tell him anytime soon, but there’s something about his voice—the way it hums through his body and into hers.

_He should know._

“Jaime, I… I want to tell you about what happened. The whole story.”

“You’re sure?”

Brienne steps back and slides her hand into his. “I’m sure.”

She leads him back into the house, to the living room, to the couch. She hugs her legs into herself, and tells him everything. It feels silly now, going back over it—the bet, the name-calling, _Gods, I agreed to sleep with him in the first place_ , and now it feels like nothing more than schoolyard bullying—and she says as much to Jaime.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps, then softens. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“It’s okay.” She pillows her cheek on her knee and forces herself to look at him. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t… dismiss it. Make it seem like it’s fine, like you always do.” He has his left hand wrapped around her ankle, and slides it up towards her calf. “It’s not fine. What happened last night—in the shower. That wasn’t fine.”

Brienne doesn’t know what to say. It all comes natural to her—the dismissal; the burying; the walls and the boxes. She never thought she could be anything other than fine. She never thought not-fine might be _good_. If there’s someone else around. Someone who would hold her in the shower to stop her from scrubbing off her own skin with her bare hands.

“Can I ask you something about last night?” Jaime asks.

“Okay.” She circles her hand around his left wrist, absently presses her fingers into the tendons there.

“Why did you get so upset when… when I was about to call you my wife? Does it make you uncomfortable? I can stop if—”

“No! No. I don’t mind.” The heat is spreading on her face already. “It’s… complicated. You started calling me that as—as a joke. When it wasn’t… real. And I just, I felt the full weight of it last night, and the full weight of—of me trying to deny it. And it… scared me, I suppose. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“It’s not a joke,” Jaime says, matter-of-factly. “You know that, right?”

Brienne picks at the fabric of the couch, her other hand still wound around Jaime’s wrist. “But I’m not really a wife to you, am I? Not in… every way.”

Jaime looks at her with some combination of alarm and earnestness. “I’m not trying to, to pressure you into anything, by calling you that. It just feels right to say it, that’s all.”

His expression is almost… child-like. She’s never considered this before, but now she finds herself wondering exactly how much growing up he had to do in his life, at a young age. How much growing up he couldn’t do as a result.

“I know you don’t mean it like that. And I don’t mind, really.” She heaves a sigh. “But—Jaime, I… I’ve never known what it is to be desired, before—before you.” Somehow, it’s only in this moment that she feels able to admit to herself that she is _desired by him_. “The only time someone told me he wanted me, it was a lie. He told me he wanted me, because he _didn’t_ want me. Then, he came back into my life and… I realised how hard it is for me to believe that anyone—that _you_ could want me, _because you want me_. That desire can be… that simple. True. Real. For me.”

“It’s real,” Jaime says, quietly. “I think you’re—I think you’re magnificent. I’d say it more, if I thought you’d believe me.”

 _Magnificent._ She likes that word, its openness, the breadth of its meaning. If Jaime had called her beautiful, she would have bristled at it. But _magnificent_ —even she believes that about herself, sometimes.

“I’m trying.” She thinks of all the parts of her body she’s given Jaime permission to touch. “I’m learning.”

* * *

Jaime relishes the time they have, during the week or so of the blackout. They check in with a few of their agents, but that’s about it. Otherwise, there are no meetings. No disguises. No dead drops. No surveillance. 

No other lives but their own.

On a whim, he decides to bring Brienne to the museum, just the two of them. He finds she doesn’t care much for paintings, or sculpture, but armour? Weapons? She looks at them so intently that he can practically visualise her thoughts, how she imagines herself wearing them, wielding them.

Or maybe those are his fantasies.

They’re standing, his hand in hers, in front of a glass vitrine encasing a suit of armour, its metal a unique and compelling blue. He thinks it would fit her well. Matches her eyes.

“It feels strange,” Brienne mutters under her breath.

Jaime looks over at her, but her gaze is fixed on the armour. “What does?”

“Not working.”

He watches her eyes travel to the sword strapped at the suit’s hip, with a golden lion’s head for a pommel.

“I think it feels nice,” he replies. “When do we ever get a break?”

“Hmm. Still feels strange.”

“Maybe strange can be nice.”

She intertwines her fingers with his. “Maybe.”

That night, just as he’s about to drift off to sleep, he feels Brienne turn towards him.

“Jaime,” he hears her say.

“Mm,” he grunts back, only half awake.

“I think I’m ready.”

“For what?” He’s been getting better at reading her mind, but he’s not lucid enough to manage it at the moment.

“You know. _Ready_.”

Jaime’s eyelids fly open. Oh, he’s extremely lucid now.

“ _Right now?_ ”

“Not _right now._ You’re barely awake.”

“Brienne, I can be wide awake right this second if you want me to be.”

Brienne brings her hands up to shield her face, as if he doesn’t already know how red her skin is under there. “Gods, Jaime,” she says into her palms.

“That’s definitely a line I’d expect you to use.”

She pulls the covers over her head and groans.

“Alright,” he laughs, “I’ll stop.”

“Saturday,” she says, from under the covers. Jaime pulls his side over his own head, so he can look at her.

“Even if we get a call from the Centre tomorrow?”

“Even then. Unless there’s an emergency. Unless… you need to meet Pia.”

“No. I already left her a message to say I can’t meet her this week.”

“Okay.” He can tell Brienne is trying not to look pleased at that.

“Let’s go out for dinner,” he suggests. “A proper date night, for once. We’ll get one of the neighbours’ kids to babysit.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “But nothing too fancy.”

Jaime was thinking of the best restaurant in the city, actually, though he realises that it’s probably one of those places that’s booked up months in advance. And he’s just Jaime Lannister, here; he has no strings to pull to get them in, unlike back home. They’re supposed to be ordinary. Nothing too fancy then.

Brienne brings her hand up to his face, runs her thumb over his stubbled jaw. He usually has to stay clean-shaven—it allows for more flexibility, with his disguises—but he’s let a tiny bit of a beard grow in, just for these few days. “I like this,” she says. It’s a simple compliment, but Brienne offers them so rarely that _he_ feels a bit like blushing, too.

“The kids think it feels funny,” he deflects instead.

“Well, it looks good. Wish you could keep it.”

He wishes he could, too.

* * *

By Friday morning, Brienne already regrets setting a date. She thought she would have preferred the certainty of planning for it, just like she does with everything else, but in this case, it’s given her too much time to think.

“What restaurant did you pick for dinner?” she asks Jaime. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching him as he reads the paper in the armchair in the corner of their bedroom. He never reads the paper. _Too much time to think._

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he says, from behind the newsprint. “And no matter how many times you ask me it will remain a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“I know, but you’re going to have to compromise just this once, because I’m not telling you.”

“I hope I won’t have to dress up.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

They sit in silence for a while. Brienne wraps her fingers around her toes. Then, gingerly, she asks: “Is there… is there anything I need to do to… prepare? For… after dinner.” 

“Like what? Protection?” He flips a page. “The Centre… _requested_ I have a procedure done, before we moved here. And I always use a condom, on the job.” She notices how he rushes through that last part, even as he’s trying to be offhand about it. “Which this isn’t.” He flips a page again.

“Oh. They—the Centre had a device put in me anyway. Just in case. But that’s not what I mean.”

Jaime folds down one corner of the paper to meet her eyes. “... Do you want a step-by-step battle plan? Because I’m pretty sure that will take the fun out of it.”

“No! I just mean, should I… shave? Down there.” Brienne winces as she says it. On principle, she doesn’t think she should, but she wants to ask anyway. One less thing that will be on her mind.

“Do you want _me_ to shave?”

She hadn’t thought that was an option. “... No?”

“I’m going to choose to ignore the hesitation there, and say fair’s fair.”

“Okay. Good.”

Jaime thinks for a moment. “Do you want to get a hotel room for the night? I’m sure we can get the sitter to stay—”

“No.” The idea makes Brienne recoil a little. _Too many unknowns._ “No. I want us to be here. In our bed.”

“Okay then.” He folds up the newspaper and gets up from the armchair. “I’ll go get the blueprints to the house.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll mark out each spot in this room where I’m going to put every candle, and every flower petal—not roses, don’t worry—and I’ll submit it to you for prior approval. Just so you’re _prepared_.” 

She throws a pillow at him. “Fuck you, Jaime.”

“Oh, that’s what I’m hoping will happen.”

“You’re insufferable. And don’t do _any_ of that, please. I don’t want… theatrics.”

“I know, Brienne. I was _kidding_. It’ll just be you, and me, in all our naked glory.”

“Gods, Jaime. You’re making me reconsider—”

“No!” He drops the paper and practically launches himself at her, holding her face between his hands. She forgets sometimes that he’s a decade older than she is. She wraps her arms around his neck and smiles up at him as innocently as she can. 

“Don’t do _any_ reconsidering,” he pleads, “I’ll stop.”

Maybe setting a date was a good thing. Brienne quite likes having this power over Jaime.

* * *

In the early hours of Saturday evening, Jaime sits on the bed, pretty much dressed, and watches Brienne walk to the closet to pick out her clothes. She opens the closet door and freezes; bends down to pick up the two boxes he snuck in there just now.

“What’s all this?”

“I had Donyse buy you something. A dress. And shoes.”

Brienne brings the two boxes over to the bed and sets them down.

“You sent one of our agents _shopping_?”

_Here we go._

“She _likes_ doing these things, Brienne. She was happy to do it for you.”

“She’s working undercover as a _septa_ and you sent her _shopping_.”

“She’s not locked up in the Sept, wife. She can disappear for a couple of hours to buy you a dress. See?” Jaime holds up a dark blue tie. “She even bought me a tie to match. I didn’t ask. _She’s bored and she likes shopping._ ”

“This is a misuse of our resources.” 

_This woman is going to be the death of him._

“Try on the damn dress, and you can tell me if you still think it’s a misuse.”

“Fine.”

Brienne opens the smaller box first, revealing a pair of elegant navy leather flats. Jaime doesn’t miss the way she strokes them just a little as she puts them on the floor, and can’t help but smile to himself. Then, she removes the lid of the larger box and lifts up the dress. It’s a short-sleeved shift, in a deep blue silk like his tie, but this fabric somehow also shimmers cobalt and turquoise at the same time. The cut is simple and modest enough that Brienne won’t feel self-conscious wearing it, though the dress probably cost more than her entire wardrobe combined. Not that she needs to know that.

“Try it on,” Jaime encourages. He expects her to bring it to the bathroom—and she does cast a brief glance towards the bathroom door—but then she sets the dress down and just… takes off her t-shirt.

And then her jeans.

 _This is new_.

Brienne is wearing her bra and underwear, but Jaime swallows a gulp nonetheless, though he’s seen all of her already, and will see all of her again in a few hours. She unzips the dress and steps into it, pulls it up the length of her body. “Zip me up,” she says, and Jaime immediately scrambles to his feet and complies.

Then, she steps away from him and—okay, maybe the dress is not so modest. It _would_ have been modest on a woman of average height, but on Brienne, it’s _short_. Jaime’s eyes travel the pale line of her ankles to her thighs. She doesn’t seem to notice its length or lack thereof, or doesn’t mind. She slips her feet into the flats, turns to look at her reflection in the mirror and simply comments, “It’s comfortable. The dress and the shoes.” 

_Trust her to reduce it to that._

“Well, I think you look amazing,” Jaime declares, reverently. He resists the urge to make a comment about the length of her legs, and how he’s currently imagining them wrapped around his waist. 

To his annoyance, Brienne just rolls her eyes.

“Seven hells, Brienne. Will you learn to accept a compliment from your husband? For example, I will now say, ‘Blue is a good colour on you, wife. It goes well with your eyes.’ And you will simply say, ‘Thank you.’”

At least she has the courtesy to blush this time. “Th-thank you,” she stutters, and smooths her dress down. That gratitude doesn’t last long, though, because she follows it with: “I feel like this outfit needs a full face of makeup to go with it. I only have _one_ tube of lipstick that I barely know how to apply.”

It’s Jaime’s turn to roll his eyes. “Put on the lipstick, and I’ll just say inappropriate things all through dinner so you’ll keep blushing.” 

Brienne stifles a laugh as she turns to help him with his tie. He watches her expression turn serious again as she weaves the lengths of fabric over and under.

“Jaime?” 

“Yes?”

“Did you ever sleep with Donyse?”

 _Shit._ Well, better to be honest. “A couple of times, at the beginning. Sometimes it just… makes things easier. That was long before I introduced you.”

She pushes the knot of his tie up into his collar and puts both hands on his chest. “Okay. Will you—will you promise me something?”

“What is it?”

“... Never mind. I don’t know if this is even possible.”

“Just say it, wife.”

Brienne inhales, deep. “Whoever it is you are when you go to their beds… don’t bring that person to ours.” Immediately, her hands fly up to cover her face. “I’m—I’m sorry, this doesn’t make any sense.”

“No. It makes sense. Okay. I won’t.”

Brienne looks at him from between her fingers. “That’s it? It’s that easy for you?”

Jaime shrugs. “I suppose I’m actively trying to be a different person, with them. I know I won’t be doing that with you.” 

He doesn’t even need to promise, not really. He told her, once, that she can’t be anyone but herself. Now, he realises he can’t be anyone but himself, too, with her. 

It’s not that it’s easy. It just _is_. 

* * *

The babysitter rings the doorbell just as they’re about to make their way downstairs. The twins burst out of their bedroom and are about to hurtle down the stairs themselves, when they stop dead in their tracks and just… gape. Brienne knows the kids have never seen them dressed like this before. Definitely not her, anyway.

“You look pretty, Mummy!” Myrcella exclaims. Tommen nods his head vigorously in agreement.

“Thank you, Myrcella.” And the twins run down the stairs.

“Oh, so it’s all perfectly fine if our daughter compliments you,” Jaime whispers in her ear. “But I get the eye rolls.”

“Jealousy is not a good look on you, Jaime,” she whispers back. “Especially when you’re jealous of your _own child._ ”

“I don’t know, Brienne. I think we need to face the truth. Almost everything is a good look on me.”

It’s at times like this that Brienne wonders how she even tolerates him. “Watch your step. Don’t trip over your own ego.”

He smirks as he holds her right hand up with his left, and sweeps his prosthetic dramatically towards the stairs. “My lady. Your carriage awaits,” he announces.

Just as they’re stepping out the door, Tommen runs up to them.

“Why can’t we go too?” he asks, standing in the doorway with his most pitiful expression.

Jaime squats down and taps Tommen’s nose with his finger. “This is just for Mummy. So she can feel special. Besides, we’re going to a boring place for boring grown-ups. You won’t like it.”

“Is it Mummy’s birthday?”

“No, but it’s a special day anyway.”

“What kind of special day?”

Brienne clears her throat before Jaime can dig himself into a deeper hole.

“It’s a secret,” Jaime decides to say. “And it’s very very important to Mummy that I keep this secret.”

She wants to smack the back of his head. _The man is making it worse._

Thankfully, and to Brienne’s bewilderment, Tommen seems to accept this explanation. “Okay then. Bye-bye Daddy. Bye-bye Mummy.”

“Bye, baby. Don’t stay up past bedtime.” Under her breath, she asks Jaime, “You did lock the basement, didn’t you?”

“Of course I locked the basement. What little faith you have in me.” He walks to the car and opens the door for her.

“Just checking,” she says, as she gets in.

“Now will you forget that we’re spies for the next two hours so we can enjoy our dinner?”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

When they pull up in front of the restaurant, it’s— _damn it_. Brienne whips round to face Jaime. “I thought I told you, _nothing fancy_.”

“This is _not_ fancy.”

“They have a valet!”

“We’re in the middle of the city. Every half-decent restaurant has valet parking.”

“Well, this is definitely the fanciest place I’ve ever been to.”

“Good thing you’re dressed for it, then.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for you to dress me.”

“You are an extremely difficult woman, do you know that?”

He grabs her by the shoulders then, and kisses her right on the lips, as if that would rearrange her thoughts (it does). “Listen to me. Tonight is the night for new experiences. We are going to go in there, and have a great three-course meal, _one_ glass of wine each because I need to drive and you have the alcohol tolerance of an ant, and then we’re going home to our very comfortable bed and I’m going to fuck your brains out the way I’ve been wanting to for the past _year_. Okay?”

“O-okay.”

Jaime has such a manic look in his eyes that Brienne has to suppress the urge to laugh. She reaches over to wipe her lipstick off his lips with her thumb.

The food _is_ great. Brienne might not have had the opportunity to develop much of a palate in her life, but she can tell a great meal from an average one, though she refrains from making any comments about the prices for Jaime’s sake. Unfortunately, they soon realise there’s not much they can talk about in such a public place. They talk about the kids, or the rare happy moments in their respective childhoods, and she has to kick Jaime under the table when he makes some of the inappropriate comments he promised—but it’s difficult to speak about anything else. Brienne thinks about all the parts of her life that she can share with him and only him, and how she can’t even do that in a room full of strangers preoccupied with their own meals and conversations. By the time the server hands them both the dessert menu, she thinks she might miss Jaime already, though he’s been sitting right there across the table from her this whole time.

Then, Jaime says, “Third from the top.”

She looks down at the menu and her eyes widen. “No. They serve that here?” It’s a dessert from back home. She couldn’t have it very often at all, but it’s one of her favourites. It’s been so many years since she’s tasted it.

“Only place in the city that does it. Old family recipe, I heard.”

They order one portion each. When Brienne takes her first bite, she’s _overwhelmed_. Her life back home might not have been all good, but it’s still _home_. And this is a little piece of that.

“It’s good, isn’t it? Maybe not quite authentic, but it’s close enough.”

Brienne nods and smiles into her dessert. “It’s close enough.”

* * *

The twins are, thankfully, sound asleep in their own beds when they arrive back home. Jaime spots how Brienne almost drops the cash while paying the sitter, before sending her off.

“Nervous?” he asks, as he shuts the door.

“You know I am.”

“Me too.”

Brienne scoffs at that. “You must say that to all the girls.”

“Yes, because it’s _very sexy_ to admit to a mark that I’m nervous.”

Brienne looks faintly pink, and Jaime thinks maybe she _does_ find it sexy. _Interesting._ He holds out his hand to her: “Shall we?”

On the way to their bedroom they open the door of the kids’ room a crack, just to check on them. “Hope Tommen doesn’t get one of his nightmares tonight,” Jaime murmurs as he closes the door.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. He just climbs into bed with Myrcella anyway, these days.”

“I don’t know. I don’t trust them.”

“Don’t be so paranoid.”

“Look who’s talking. Anyway, I just don’t want to be interrupted,” Jaime replies, as he leads Brienne to their bedroom. “I plan on taking my time.”

He feels her let go of his hand once they get to the doorway, just as he flicks on the lamp next to her.

“I’m scared,” she says, honestly. “I’m—I’m ready. But I’m scared.”

“Do you trust me?” he asks, as he walks over to her side of the bed to switch on the lamp there, too. There won’t be any fumbling in the darkness, tonight.

“Of course,” Brienne replies, though her voice trembles.

“Then close the door and come here.”

Brienne does exactly that. She curls her fingers into his waistband, and presses in close.

“I won’t be any good,” she whispers, her nose touching his.

“You don’t have to _be_ anything. You just have to feel good.”

Jaime’s lips find hers as her hands move up to his collar to loosen his tie. He locates the pull of the zip on her dress and breaks the kiss just as he starts dragging it down.

“Rules?” he remembers to ask.

“No rules,” she answers, lifting the tie over his head and letting it fall to the floor.

“That’s dangerous, Brienne.” He feels the zip dislocate tooth by tooth. 

“Not with you.”

“Just tell me if—” but she silences him with another kiss, deeper and deeper, as her fingers work their way around the buckle of his belt, undoing the clasp beneath it too. Jaime slips her dress off her and it pools on the ground, and as he parts from her to catch his breath he looks down and thinks, nonsensically, that her feet are an alabaster island in its ocean of fabric. She is unbuttoning his shirt now, movements frantic and delicate, freeing it from where it was tucked in and pushing it down his shoulders. Jaime eases himself out of it and is about to rid himself of every other piece of extraneous clothing that’s on him right now, and her, when Brienne grips his forearm, around the straps of his prosthetic. Right, he remembers now that she doesn’t like him wearing it, when it’s just them. He’s reaching over to get it off, but she holds his left hand back and says:

“Wait. I have a question.”

“My cock in your cunt, is the general way this goes. Other places and parts to be negotiated.”

“I’m—I’m aware of that, Jaime.” She looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or to punch him, and this might be his favourite Brienne, he thinks, but his brain can’t adjust the rankings right this second. 

“Do you remember the first night we shared this bed?” she says, as she removes his prosthetic for him, excruciatingly slow.

“ _You want to talk about that now?_ ” His cock is starting to strain against his pants that, for some unknown reason, _he is still wearing_ , and Brienne wants to _take a walk down memory lane_.

“I thought you said you wanted to take your time.” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, and he is absolutely convinced that she’s torturing him on purpose.

“ _When we’re naked_. Go on then, what’s your question?” _Oh, thank the gods, the prosthetic is off._ He’s reaching around to her back to undo the clasp of her bra when she asks:

“Why did you ask me if I would mind? About you taking off your prosthetic?”

He pauses. “You remember that?”

Brienne grasps his stump as the fingers of her other hand trace the muscles on his abdomen. “I’ve always wondered why. It was like you were… asking for my permission.”

Jaime really doesn’t want to have to bring up Cersei right now, but he has no other choice. “My cousin—she always wanted me to wear it. To bed. So she could… pretend that I was still whole. I just—I wanted to be sure. So I asked.” 

Now it’s Brienne’s turn to pause. “Oh. Even though we were just… sleeping next to each other?”

“Yeah.” There’s an anxiety rising inside him, and he’s not sure where it’s coming from, so he pushes it down. “And now I know you _don’t_ want me to wear it, anyway, so I won’t.”

Brienne looks at him sharply.

“It’s not because _I don’t like it._ Is that what you think?”

Jaime has no answer. He’s never really given it much thought until now. “That time… after we met her. On the couch. You removed it. I just thought…” 

He thought she removed it for the same reason Cersei wanted him to wear it.

“Jaime, listen to me.” She brings his stump up to her chest. “I took it off because I know it’s not comfortable _for you_. Not because of—of any other reason, or preference.”

He feels, all of a sudden, exposed, which is a strange thing to feel considering he’s still half-dressed. He feels like Brienne just found some festering wound he wasn’t even aware existed. Like she’s been—nursing him all this while, without either of them knowing. It makes him want to say—

“I love you.”

And that was definitely the worst possible response he could have come up with.

“... What?” Oh shit, he doesn’t want her to panic, not right now.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Are you… taking it back?”

“No! I just, that wasn’t how I wanted to say it, and—”

Brienne silences him with a kiss, again, his stump nestled between their bodies this time. When they part, just a fraction of an inch, she whispers: “I do too. Love you. But I think you already knew that.” 

She can’t look him in the eye, can’t even say the three words in their conventional order, but it doesn’t matter.

“I suspected.” He brushes his thumb across her cheek. “It’s still good to hear you say it.”

She smiles, lets go of his stump, and moves back from him. She releases her bra and lets it drop; pulls her underwear down and steps out of them, hesitantly. When she straightens, Jaime can see her struggle to keep her arms down by her sides, to not wrap them around herself. He lets her stay there, defiant, bare as she chose to be, while he sheds the rest of his clothes, even as he struggles a little with his one hand. 

Then Jaime walks towards the bed, and waits for Brienne to come to him.

* * *

For once, Brienne isn’t overthinking. She’s barely thinking at all. The only thing on her mind right now is Jaime’s lips on her skin, tracing the arch of her neck, across her collarbone, from one breast to another—she gasps as he closes his lips around each nipple, feels his tongue navigate their circumference—moving to the ridges of her ribs, the expanse of her stomach, the dip of her navel, down, down… down?

“Jaime,” she breathes, “where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” and she regrets asking him a question already, she wants his lips back on her body, “Everywhere.”

And now he seems very far away, his stubble is tickling the inside of her thigh, and his mouth feels so good on her skin but he’s _very far away_ , and she brings her hands up to her breasts, desperately trying to substitute his tongue. She senses the press of each finger of his left hand on the flesh of one thigh, his stump smooth and rough at the same time on the other, and he’s pushing her thighs apart and then—

he traces his tongue, achingly slow, from the base of her seam to its apex, and captures the bud there between his lips.

“ _Shit._ ”

Jaime lifts his head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” And she’s back to thinking again, she wants to go back to not thinking. “That—that feels good.”

“Thank you. That’s the idea.”

“Shut up, Jaime.”

And oh, _he does_. The entire world has been reduced to his mouth on her folds, to all these unholy sounds and touches, and he’s doing things down there that lips and tongues have no right to be doing, or every right, and she wants it to last forever, this choreography. _I plan on taking my time_ , he’d said; _please do_ , she replies in her mind, too late. She’s so focused on all the attention his mouth is giving to her clit that she almost doesn’t notice that his fingers have inched themselves closer, that they are parting her, and then he’s slipping one finger into her, first, just one and not too deep and it already feels like too much, then he adds a second, and how could she have dared to think that one was too much? There are so many different sensations assailing one single part of her body and they all feel so strange, strange and more-than-nice, much better because it’s _Jaime_ , and she can’t even feel embarrassed at how much she’s writhing beneath him, she can only feel herself getting closer and closer and then it’s a flood and a void all at the same time—

“Seven fucking hells.” If that was stepping off the edge of a precipice, she wants to climb back up again and again just so she can keep flinging herself off.

“You’re welcome.”

She’s still breathless as she feels Jaime make his way back onto the bed to lay beside her. Gods, his mouth is glistening with _her_.

“Was that your first? Orgasm, I mean.”

“Of course not,” she replies, too quickly.

Jaime glances at her with interest. “Oh really? Do tell.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“That’s, that’s private!”

“Ah.” His eyes travel down to her neck, her chest. “The blush _spreads_.” 

Brienne doesn’t need to look down at herself. She can feel the heat travelling all across her body, and she knows Jaime can read in the colour of her skin all those awkward, secret moments in the bath when her own fingers roamed downward as she thought of him, of golden and beautiful Jaime, of _unattainable_ Jaime, though he shared her bed each night. The same self-satisfied, smug, _naked_ bastard lying beside her right now, after having licked and sucked and caressed her into—whatever the hell that was, that seemed so fundamentally different from the quiet pleasure she had allowed herself in the safety of the bathroom, even at times when she knew he was just on the other side of the door.

She needs to change the subject. She sits up, Jaime still reclining on the bed like the fucking god that he is, far too proud of himself. Brienne rearranges her legs so they point towards the other side of the bed now, intensely aware that Jaime is watching her every move.

“What are you doing, Brienne?”

“... Strategising.”

“What f—”

And his half-question ends in a moan because she’s reached out and wrapped her hand around his cock, and she’s never done this before but maybe if she remembers every single detail of how Jaime’s mouth danced on her cunt, she can figure it out from there. So that’s what she does, as she takes him into her mouth, as she draws her tongue across and around the tip, along the shaft, tentative at first, then faster as she experiments, one hand still at the base of his cock, the other splayed across his belly. She’s not sure which one of them she’s stabilising with that hand, her or him; she can feel the tension in his body where he’s resisting the urge to thrust up into her, the low jolts as he pants his gratification.

“Fuck. Brienne.”

She looks up. “Is this fine?” she asks, as if the entire sequence of events up till now had been completely innocuous.

Jaime doesn’t speak, or can’t, instead he just wraps his left hand around her own and guides her speed, and pressure, and she observes and tries to learn, then he manages to exhale, “Your mouth,” and oh, she forgot about that part. Just before she can resume she feels, not fingers on her folds this time, but a soft and deep compression, and she looks over to see Jaime’s stump between her legs.

“You’re distracting me, Jaime.”

“Just work through it, wife.” He groans as he slides both of their hands up his cock in the meantime. “Multi-task.”

So she does, she concentrates every single cell in her body on feeling him and being felt by him, and eventually Jaime gasps, “Almost,” and she realises she didn’t _strategise_ for this part at all, she doesn’t even know how things like this usually _end_. The best thing she can come up with is to release him from her mouth and continue to stroke his cock—he’s let go of her hand by now—and run her thumb over his opening, until she brings him over the edge.

While Jaime lies there, catching his breath, Brienne gets up to grab a towel from the bathroom. She wipes off her hand as she walks back to the bed to join him again.

“Sorry,” he says, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she cleans him.

“Why?”

“Now we need to wait. I thought I’d be inside you by now.”

She folds up the towel. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I don’t know. It felt good. I was… impatient.”

“It’s okay. We have all night.” _And the rest of our lives,_ she thinks, boldly, though she tells herself to discard the idea.

“Did you…?” Jaime motions vaguely with his stump.

“Is that… possible?” Brienne didn’t realise it could happen so soon after the last.

“Of course it is, for you. I guess you didn’t, if you had to ask.”

“No. But it’s okay.” She leans over to kiss him. “Later.”

“Mm. Later.”

* * *

When Jaime next opens his eyes, he finds Brienne lying on her side, staring at him, with her back against the pillows and her head propped up on one hand. He’s glad she’s resisted the temptation to hide herself under the covers. He sweeps his gaze over every inch of her bare body, with its faint scars from old injuries and a couple of healing bruises from their sparring. He has a suspicion that she might have indulged herself in gazing at his body too, while he slept. 

“You dozed off,” she murmurs, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Has it been long?”

“An hour, maybe. Probably less.”

“I think I dreamed of you.”

“... Oh. What was I doing in your dream?”

“Can’t remember. You were wearing something far too distracting.”

“Like a frilly pink dress?”

“That _would_ be distracting, but no. Like... nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“You weren’t wearing anything.”

“So you had a dream about me exactly as I am right now.”

It’s true, but— “It was still a nice dream. And the best part is, I can relive it, every single morning, afternoon, and night for the foreseeable future.”

He brings Brienne in close, aligning his torso with hers, slotting one foot between her legs as she winds her arms around his neck. His cock is already hardening between them.

“Is that how often you think we’ll be doing this?” she teases. “Do you think you can handle it, old man?”

“How dare you call your husband old?”

“It’s just a fact. As I recall, you said the general way this goes is for your cock to be in my cunt. You fell asleep before that could even happen.”

“Oh, I’m awake now,” and then Jaime is crushing his lips into hers, letting his stump graze across her back. Without breaking the kiss, Brienne slips her arm between them and works at his cock, tending it. He is suddenly very annoyed that his left arm, the one attached to his fingers, is trapped beneath him, and he pulls back to say, “Other side.”

“Huh?”

“Other side, wife, or your crippled husband won’t be able to touch you in all the places he wants to touch you.”

He had initially intended only to reverse their positions, but as Brienne attempts to roll over him, he finds himself flat on his back and her above him.

“Stop. This is good.” He can tell she’s about to protest, so he says, “And if you give me any of that ‘I’m too heavy’ nonsense, I swear to the Gods I will never give you another orgasm ever again.”

She bends over him and plants her hands on either side of his head. “Are you sure you can live with that?”

“Are you sure _you_ can?” he challenges, as he reaches between them to find her sex. Jaime runs his fingers over the bundle of nerves there, his eyes never leaving Brienne’s face while she arches and moans above him. She’s already wet and ready for him, but he’s desperate to bring her to her peak the way he wasn’t able to before, and so he keeps going, his thumb rotating on her clit, his fingers curling into her entrance, again and again, refusing to let up until he finally feels her buck and shake on his hand. The fabric wrinkles around his head as she digs her fingers into the sheets, into the mattress. 

“I don’t think either one of us can live without that,” she pants, and Jaime just smirks as he brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean. There’s a look in Brienne’s eye now that tells him she wants to give as good as she got, and Jaime wants to see exactly what will come of that.

Soon, her breaths more stable now, he finds that his cock is already back in her hand. Then, she just—doesn’t move. Jaime looks up into Brienne’s face to see eyes glazed over. He moves to sit up, holding her in his lap, wraps his right arm around her waist and lifts his left hand to caress her cheek.

“Hey. Look at me. It’s me. It’s just you and me.”

“Okay,” she rasps, and then he thinks maybe it was too much to ask for her to be on top, their first time, and he gently lays her down on the bed. 

“Are you okay? Do you need to stop?” Jaime asks, as he strokes her hair.

“No. I’m ready. I… I want you inside me. But—slow.”

“Okay. Just talk to me. Tell me what you want.”

Brienne nods, and lifts her head up to capture his lips in a solitary kiss. Then, Jaime positions himself at her entrance, and as she sucks in a breath, he pushes into her, slow like she wanted. She’s warm, all around him, and safe, and it’s _Brienne_ , and he wants to stay here for all eternity.

“Good?” he checks, and she nods again and shifts her hips. He withdraws and pushes back into her again, driving into her with all the tenderness he can manage, losing himself in her eyes but never straying from them either, mumbling sweet words into her ear, declarations of love infinitesimal and infinite. She doesn’t make any requests of him, though he told her she could. She just gazes up at him, accepts him into her, and he listens to her whimpers and sighs softly intermingling with his moans. 

At one point he feels Brienne’s walls pulse around him, and watches her eyelids flutter. Jaime is surprised by it; she had given him no indication that she was close besides a slight quickening of her breath. He dips his head to nuzzle and kiss her neck, brings his left hand to her breasts, to help her along as she deepens their embrace, their joining. Not too long after, he finds he is close, too, and this time his mouth insists on locating hers, parted already in a sigh, their tongues intertwining as he speaks his unintelligible pleasure into her, and she must know he’s nearly there because—because they are one and the same being. Her hands are moving down along his back to pull him in, fold him within herself, amidst his hastened and eager thrusts. Even when Jaime finds his release, he thinks he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t ever want to be released _from her_.

Later, his cock softened and slipping from her body, Jaime gathers Brienne into his arms, lets her rest her head on his chest. They lie there in silence; sated, soothed. 

“Jaime?” Brienne asks, after a long while.

“Yes, wife?”

“When you said you had the procedure done. Is that… permanent?” 

Jaime can feel her tracing his navel with her finger. He realises he’s been drawing circles on her shoulder too.

“According to the doctors, no,” he says, to the ceiling. “But I doubt the Centre would ever allow me to… reverse it. And I can’t go to a doctor here. So I suppose it’s permanent in that sense.”

Brienne’s finger stills. “In a different world. Would you have wanted more children? With… with me?”

“Hmm. It would have been nice, wouldn’t it? To have a docile blue-eyed baby to go along with our green-eyed twin terrors?”

She shifts herself up so her head is on his bicep, now. “They’re not _terrors_ , Jaime,” she replies, indignantly, looking up at him.

“Oh, they’re perfectly well-behaved around you, but they bully their poor old dad when you’re not looking.”

“That is not true at all.”

He composes his most serious expression. “You wouldn’t know. I am the only witness to their crimes.”

“Jaime. Don’t be mean to our kids.” She pokes his side to emphasise her point, and he grabs her hand before she can take it away.

“Well, how about you? Do you want more children?” He presses his fingers into her palm. “You’re still young. You could still have your own, even when you’re my age.”

“I won’t have more if they’re not yours too,” she says. Brienne just—said it so plainly that he doesn’t think she realises what she just implied, with this declaration. Or maybe she does. He knows, of course, that if all goes smoothly, when she’s his age they should theoretically still be raising the twins, teenagers by then. And they should theoretically not be having more children. But, that's just—the logistics of the job. That’s not exactly what she meant. 

Maybe to her, those words were just the logical conclusion of— _I do too. Love you._

“Anyway,” she continues, as if she hadn’t just made his heart stop, “I never thought I was going to be a mother. Even before the Programme. The Centre made that decision for me.”

“You could have said no,” Jaime suggests, a lump still in his throat. “My father demanded this of me, but it wasn’t an order, was it—for you? It was just one opportunity. You could have picked another assignment.”

“Yes, I suppose I could have,” Brienne muses.

Then, she reaches up to cup his face.

“But I’m glad I didn’t.”

Jaime leans into the cradle of her palm, the way he remembers doing the night she had first kissed him.

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Chapter 10, this one is a real mish-mash of all three canons (and really, most of it I just made up lol) so I won’t link any scenes from The Americans for this one.
> 
> Thanks so much to [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign) aka [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde) for stepping in as beta for this chapter, on top of my usual beta (who doesn't have an AO3 account, the lurker).
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	13. Parallels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait again! Now, things get… complicated. Even more complicated.

Sleep leaves much easier than it comes, when Jaime isn’t beside her. It’s taken Brienne the better part of almost five years of sleeping in this bed, in this house, to come to this realisation. Or, more accurately, it is only in recent months that she has begun to allow herself to think of it as something other than an indication of—of weakness. She opens her eyes to the darkness now, ears already following the familiar path of Jaime’s footsteps up the stairs and towards their room, faint as they are. She switches on the lamp at her bedside just as the door creaks open.

“I tried being extra quiet this time,” Jaime whispers as he closes the door behind him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Brienne replies, head still on her pillow. “It just happens.” Her body knows, somehow. She is woken by nothing more than the fact of his return.

“Not a very good spy, am I?” he says, as he unbuttons his shirt. “Maybe my stealth has diminished with age.”

“Maybe I’m just a very good wife,” Brienne allows herself to retort, just to get a half-smile out of Jaime. “What time is it?”

“Late. Early. Sorry I had to stay overnight again.” 

Brienne doesn’t respond to his apology. She knows he doesn’t expect one, anyway. He says “sorry” only as a matter of habit, though she knows he feels some guilt. But there’s only so many times she can reply with “it’s okay”—even if it _is_ okay, for her. That he leads this other life, upon all the lives they already have to lead, for the Cause.

Every time he comes home from Pia’s, Brienne watches him shed his clothes as he retreats to the bathroom, where she’s already laid out a change of clothes, neatly folded by his sink. She listens to the shower come on, to the gargling of mouthwash. She waits for him to peel off his skin, to become Jaime Lannister once more. 

Brienne turns to face him when he finally slides into bed beside her. He winds his stump around her waist, lets it slip underneath her shirt, not for any reason other than to let it rest on the skin of her back. She pulls his arm tighter around herself.

“You have that look,” she says, observing the knit of his brow.

“What look?” he asks, though she knows he’s feigning ignorance.

“You know. The look you get when something’s happened but you don’t want to tell me yet.”

Jaime grimaces. “It’s pointless for me to say I’ll tell you in the morning, right?” 

Technically it _is_ morning, anyway. But if she says that he’ll only feel worse.

“You know I won’t be able to sleep till you tell me.”

He takes a breath. “Fine. Pia—her parents were there last night. At her apartment.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah,” Jaime sighs, “I was surprised too. She cooked dinner for all four of us.”

“She didn’t tell you they were going to be there?”

“No. She just… she just sprang them on me. Said they were in town on a surprise visit. Apparently she called and left a message for me, but my meeting with Donyse went long so I didn’t get the message before I went over.” Jaime hesitates. “I just—I have this feeling she planned it. They live all the way across the country, and they don’t strike me as spontaneous types.”

Brienne can’t help but balk at his suggestion of any kind of subterfuge on Pia’s part. “Who _does_ that?” _Besides people like them._

Jaime gives her a look. “Someone who thinks she’s been with a man for more than two years and is sick of keeping him a secret.”

“She knows she’s not supposed to say anything, right? She thinks she’s giving confidential information to Internal Affairs. No one should know about the meetings in the first place, let alone about your—”

Brienne pauses. She realises she doesn’t exactly know how to define this, this relationship between him and Pia. He sees her one night a week, at most, and even when he stays over he comes back home before the sun is up. Maybe he drops by on an odd weekend afternoon, but some weeks he doesn’t see her at all. Brienne wonders how people like Pia could have so much hope, and faith, in another human being. Or maybe it’s more about how much they want to have this hope. How it gives them this boundless capacity to see only what they want to see. 

(And how good Jaime is at making them see it.)

“After her parents left,” he continues, “she just kept swearing to me that they won’t say anything. That they know we have to keep things quiet because of work, though they don’t know the specifics. She just wanted so much for them to meet me. So they could see she was… happy.” Jaime sighs again, and Brienne thinks he feels guilty in more ways than one. “I stayed because—I needed to reassure her that I wasn’t upset about the whole thing.”

“… Did it go well, at least? The dinner?”

“They’re nice enough people, I suppose. Very… _normal._ They said they liked me. I was my usual charming self.” Jaime smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I thought Josmyn was supposed to be reserved,” Brienne teases back. “Not _charming_.”

“Hey,” Jaime gripes, a little bit offended. “He has his own brand of charisma.” And then he mumbles something she can’t quite hear, close though they are.

“What did you say?”

“... I said, Pia doesn’t call me Josmyn.”

“You never told me that. What does she call you?”

“... Peck.”

Brienne barks out a laugh. She claps her hand over her mouth, but can’t seem to keep herself from sniggering.

“Trust me, I know,” Jaime groans. “She thinks it’s… _cute._ ”

“That’s one way of putting it.” The pet name is—unfortunate. She’s thankful Jaime just calls her ‘wife’. “And you are many things, Jaime, but cute is not one of them.”

“I didn’t intend for Josmyn Peckledon to be a particularly cute man, either.” Jaime looks so wounded that she has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing again. 

“Now I’m curious to meet ‘Peck’. See what’s so attractive about him.”

“You wouldn’t like him. He’s too boring.”

“Oh, so you think my type is the opposite of boring.”

“I’m not boring,” Jaime grins boyishly. “You like _me_.”

“Sometimes I question my own judgment,” Brienne sighs, and then she does laugh when Jaime’s grin fades. She runs her fingers through his hair, still a little wet from his shower. “I wish… I wish you could have met my father. He would have liked you, I think. The you that I know.” Once, a couple of years after her father had passed, she had let Jaime listen to the final message she’d received from back home. It is the only recording she still keeps.

“Me too,” Jaime replies. “You’ve met mine already, at least. Though that’s not something I would wish upon you, if you hadn’t.”

Then, Jaime frowns again, and leans his forehead against hers. “I don’t know how much last night would have soothed her, and for how long,” he confesses. “She’s getting anxious. She needs—she needs more from Peck, I think. And I don’t know what else he can give her.”

Brienne doesn’t know what to tell him. They can’t afford to lose Pia as a source—she’s the only link they have to the enemy’s counterintelligence efforts. Though she hasn’t been able to share anything truly classified, she’s given them some insight over the years into what exactly the other side knows, or doesn’t, about the Centre’s operations. 

But Brienne doesn’t want to devise solutions for Peck right this second. She doesn’t think Jaime wants to, either.

Instead, she captures his lips with hers, just to take his mind off things. It’s as far as she should go, she knows. Jaime has his own rules, too. _Never in the same night._

She deepens the kiss anyway, something selfless and selfish at the same time.

When she pulls away, Jaime’s eyes are still closed, as if he’s relishing the touch of her lips. Relishing _her._ Brienne doesn’t ever want to get used to this part. It was strange for her, at first, even uncomfortable, every time she discovered some new and subtle trace of desire in his face, his body, his touch. She used to avoid recognising these traces, will herself to forget them as soon as she saw them, consider them all anomalies. And so she never really learned them by heart, not consciously. Now she’s almost glad she didn’t try. She likes being surprised by each and every entry in Jaime’s whole lexicon of gestures. It’s as if she’s discovering his desire again and again and again, in all its possible definitions.

Jaime opens his eyes, slightly dazed. He has a different look now, one that she’s come to recognise these past few months.

“I didn’t. With her,” he murmurs, low and tentative. “Just slept there. I told her I was worn out from the dinner.”

_Oh._

“But we don’t have to,” he says, hurriedly, coming back to himself. “If you don’t want to. If it’s not something you’re—”

Once more, Brienne doesn’t bother to reply. She just kisses him again, interrupts him with her lips, slides her own hand up the front of his shirt, across the planes of his chest, and down. Later, she swings her legs over his hips, rides him like she couldn’t manage their first time, like she’s learned to do in all the times since then. Her own hips keep a slow, undulating rhythm, this morning. There is no frenzy. She wants Jaime to explore all the deepest parts within her, to revel in it, and he seems happy to accede. His fingers grip the muscles of her waist, her thigh, then move to where they are joined, touches her there languidly, in perfect time with the roll of her hips, with his own slight thrusts. The bedroom echoes only with their sighs. There is no other way for them to exist, right now, and she wants this to go on for as long as possible, this quiet intensity—the kind of intensity that comes from an unwavering belief that they have all the time in the world. 

She lets Jaime lose himself in her body, like this. She lets herself think that he finds himself there, too.

* * *

Jaime isn’t sure how long he’s been counting the freckles on the back of Brienne’s neck. They’re a different shade now than when he started, the colour of her skin shifting in the changing gradient of the early morning sun. Every time he loses count, he goes back to the first freckle and starts again. He’s made it almost as far as her shoulder, the skin there exposed where the loose collar of her shirt has slipped down in her sleep.

It’s been a few days since he met Pia’s parents, and he still hasn’t figured out what to do next. The only thing he’s figured out is that he doesn’t want to leave this bed. Once he leaves this bed, he steps into a world where Peck exists. Where Peck has to be accountable to Pia. He’d much rather be here, counting the freckles on the back of Brienne’s neck, on her shoulder where the loose collar of her shirt has slipped down in her sleep.

Eventually, Brienne stirs; turns onto her back. That’s that, then. She stretches out her limbs, her body an unending landscape in his field of vision.

“Good morning, Mrs Payne.”

Brienne yawns, her eyes still closed. “It’s Ms Payne. _Miz_ ,” she mutters groggily. “There isn’t supposed to be a Mr Payne in the picture.”

No, there isn’t. Brienne is supposed to be a successful career woman in her mid-30s—still a good few years older than she is now, but usually only Jaime can tell how young she really is, and it’s nothing a good wig and some glasses can’t hide. _Miz_ Payne has taken in a foster child, an orphaned teenage refugee, just one among thousands who have fled their war-torn, politically unstable, poverty-stricken homeland. Well, that’s mostly the truth, except he’s also an agent recruited by said country’s own intelligence agency to be trained here, with them. An arrangement between allies, fighting for the Cause. Brienne is meeting him for the first time today, and soon they will be Ms Payne, and Podrick, living in a house in an entirely different suburb. Podrick will be living there, anyway, even if Ms Payne is at work all the time.

“I still think you should leave the option of a husband open,” Jaime rambles on, muffling all those other things he doesn’t want to think about. “A husband that travels the world on very important business. Oh, maybe I’m a pilot that flies a lot of long-haul international routes _._ Then I can appear every once in a while.”

“We all agreed that this would be _my_ mission, Jaime,” Brienne huffs as she cracks open an eye. “I’m perfectly capable of running this on my own. Besides, you have enough on your plate.”

“I’m not saying you _can’t_ run this on your own, wife.” Jaime draws closer to her. “I’m just saying, if we have to have so many different identities, I would rather be married to you in as many of them as possible.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, as she always does when he says sweet things to her. He thinks they’re sweet, anyway, even if his wife doesn’t want to appreciate them. “I happen to think some independence is good for a marriage,” she says, patting his arm. “It’s healthy.”

“You didn’t want to be so _independent_ last night. _I need your cock in me, Jaime!_ ” he exclaims, in a mock falsetto that he knows sounds nothing like her.

Brienne wrinkles her nose. “You’re disgusting. And I did _not_ say that.”

“You didn’t _need_ to say it. I saw the hunger in your eyes.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you _chose_ this assignment,” Jaime drawls, then buries his face in her neck. “Because you’re _loyal to the Cause_ ,” he mumbles, between kisses up the line of her jaw. “Because you _love_ me,” he whispers into her ear, encloses the skin of her earlobe between his lips.

“Unfortunately for me, all of those things are true,” she admits begrudgingly, even as she lets out a soft moan. She allows him to go on for a while more, before returning them to reality. “Remind me what you have to do today?”

Jaime rolls onto his back. “I’ll be at the office most of the day. I need to transcribe some recordings. You know how long that takes me, even with the computer,” he groans, wiping his face with his left hand. “We should tell Goodwin to assign us a secretary. A disability benefit for me.”

Brienne laughs and turns towards him. “Well, a secretary will keep up the pretence of the office at least.”

“How about you? What time is your meeting?”

“I’ll have to go straight to his apartment once I drop the kids off. And you.”

“Lunch?” he asks, and she agrees. They try to do this now, every once in a while when their schedules line up. Some semblance of normalcy.

But when Brienne opens the door just before lunchtime, Jaime knows things are not normal at all, not even by their standards. He looks up from the computer to find her— _fuming_.

“The whole situation is ridiculous, Jaime,” she says, exasperated, once she’s locked the door behind her. He’s never seen her this worked up.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

Brienne sits across the desk from him, all nervous energy. “The agent they assigned. He’s supposed to be eighteen. When I showed up at his apartment—if you could even call it one—there was only a boy there, and he didn’t look eighteen at all. I asked him again and again and he just kept saying he’s eighteen. Finally he broke down and told me he’s really _fourteen_.”

“What? How is that possible?”

“I have no fucking clue. The Centre doesn’t even accept recruits younger than sixteen. I don’t know what this other agency is playing at. Or whether the boy lied, somehow, along the way.”

“Can’t we just send him back?”

“Probably, but—he begged me not to tell. And you know how it is, in his country. They may have won the war, but they’re barely holding it together. I wouldn’t want to send him back _there_.” Brienne slumps in her chair, one hand on her forehead. “I don’t know what to do. Eighteen is still young, but I could have worked with that. What the hell am I going to do with _fourteen_? How am I supposed to run any missions with a _fourteen-year-old boy_?”

 _You don’t_ , Jaime thinks. _Not unless that boy is the son of the General and has been trained for that express purpose since he was a child._

But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he just says, “I should have told Goodwin straight to his face that this assignment was going to be a nightmare.”

“You know that’s hardly a reason not to complete a mission,” Brienne replies, responsible to a fault, even in her agitation.

“No, it’s not. But an underaged and inexperienced agent _is_. What’s the point of this kind of cooperation if we’re set up to fail?”

In Jaime’s experience, inter-agency partnerships were tricky, at best. He’d told Brienne exactly what he thought about this whole arrangement, after they found out about it. Most of these partnerships were bogged down by miscommunication and inefficiency and general incompatibility. But they just—kept happening. _We’ll pool our resources_ , they’d say. _Learn from each other. Unite to fight for the Cause on a global scale._ That’s what they liked to say, up top. Well, they’re in a fucking mess, now, on the ground.

“Where’s his apartment?” Jaime asks, finally. “Is it far?”

“Not too far. Twenty minutes drive from here.”

“Okay. Let’s get takeout and head there. Pick up something for him too.” Brienne is about to protest, as usual, but Jaime holds up a hand. “I know you didn’t want me involved, but I want to meet this kid. I want to know what we’re dealing with.”

They arrive at the apartment building, and even from the outside Jaime can see why Brienne said she could barely call the boy’s accommodation liveable. The building is so old and so badly maintained that it looks like it’s about to collapse under its own weight. So when Podrick opens the door for them to reveal his tiny studio, Jaime can’t say that he’s surprised by its contents. There’s not much more than a thin mattress, a small table, one chair so rickety that Jaime wouldn’t ever dare sit on it, and something approaching the ghost of a kitchen. He feels a twinge of guilt that the Centre—that his _father_ —secured them their beautiful three-bedroom house. Clearly the boy’s agency couldn’t, or wouldn’t, afford anything better than this.

“Hello. Have you c-come to t-take me away?” Podrick asks, half-hiding behind the door. The accent is fine—it fits his cover—but seven hells, the boy has a _stutter_. And he looks—well, Jaime supposes he could be fourteen, but if Podrick said he was eleven he would have believed him too. _Definitely not eighteen._

“No, Podrick,” Brienne answers, pushing the door closed as Podrick presses himself against the wall. “This is my husband, Jaime. He’s an agent too. We’re just trying to figure out how to… move forward.”

Jaime sees Podrick’s eyes light up as he spots the bags of food they’re carrying. He wonders when the boy last ate. “Hi, Podrick. We brought lunch.”

“Th-thank you. And you can c-call me Pod.”

Since there’s only one chair and one table, they let Pod sit there to eat. He wolfs his food down ravenously, like he thinks it’s the last good meal he’ll get in a long time. Jaime and Brienne settle for eating at the kitchen counter, but they can’t discuss anything without Pod overhearing. And the bathroom didn’t even have a door, so they can’t hide in there. 

So Jaime breaks a rule. He speaks in their native language.

“He can’t understand us, can he?” Jaime says under his breath.

Brienne startles, but responds in kind. “I don’t think so.”

“Why the hell is he living in these conditions, alone?”

“He had a foster family—just regular people, not agents. They didn’t treat him well, I think. He wouldn’t say much. I guess he joined the Cause to get out.”

“I don’t know if he can consider this an improvement.”

“Other agencies don’t have the resources we have, Jaime.”

“I’m aware of that, Brienne.” Jaime looks over at Pod, who’s moved on to the extra portion of food they had bought just in case. “You definitely can’t run the mission we were planning to run with him. He’s, what, supposed to be in high school as part of his cover? He’d probably barely survive that.”

He turns his head back to Brienne and—oh no. Brienne has _that look._ That look she gets when she has an idea that she knows he’ll disapprove of, but wants to do it anyway.

“I was thinking, on the way here,” she starts, very slow. “What if—I know this is crazy, but what if _we_ fostered him? Not Ms Payne. Us. The Lannisters.”

She’s lost her damn mind. “... Are you actually suggesting that we bring another agent into our home? Someone we don’t even _know_?”

“Maybe—maybe it’ll be a chance to give him a better life. It’s what the Cause gave to me. And—I know you won’t like me saying this, but isn’t it our duty to recruit more people for the Cause?” _She's right. He doesn't like it._ “We’ll find… we’ll find another way to run the mission we were supposed to run, and we can train him in the meantime.”

“ _Have you forgotten that we have two five-year-old children?_ ” Jaime says through gritted teeth. He can tell Brienne is resisting the urge to tell him that they turn six next month. 

“ _Of course not._ But look at him, Jaime. He’s harmless. And maybe it’ll be good for them to have someone around from a different country, with different principles.” _A country that believes in the principles of the Cause, she means._

“So now you’re recruiting our children.” He is trying very hard to keep his voice down in front of Pod, who has clearly started to realise that they’re arguing about him.

“ _No._ We agreed never to bring them into this. But is it so bad that I want them to be influenced by something other than this country?”

“ _I was influenced by something other than this fucking country_ ,” Jaime seethes. “I was groomed since my birth to do whatever it takes for the Cause, for my father. I don’t want the children _anywhere near that life._ Who _knows_ what the boy’s been through? What he’s had to do? How far he’ll go? You want the children to be _influenced_?” He knows, he _knows_ he shouldn’t say what he’s about to say next, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Maybe I should go dig up Renly Baratheon’s body and drag that back into the house.”

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._

Brienne is pale. “I—I know you didn’t mean that, Jaime.” There’s a shiver in her voice, doubt in her wide eyes.

“Shit. Shit. I’m sorry.” His hand goes up to her cheek, and he can feel her flinch. _Fuck._

“I’m done,” Pod announces, and they both turn to look at him, Jaime’s hand falling from Brienne’s face. The boy is acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Th-thank you again for lunch.”

“You’re welcome,” Brienne says, steadying herself, switching back to their other tongue. “Pod. There are some… things we have to work out. With the Centre. You know that you weren’t what we were expecting.”

“I know. P-please don’t send me b-back. I’ll work hard, I p-promise.”

“We’ll try our best. But we’ll have to leave you here for now, okay? Until we sort things out.”

He nods. 

Jaime’s mouth is dry. He’s lost his appetite, though he’s hardly touched his lunch. “Pod,” he offers, “you can have this. For later.”

Pod smiles and thanks him, so innocently that Jaime doesn’t know what came over him just now, thinking the worst of the boy. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, taking him in. 

But—no. They shouldn’t. Jaime thinks of all the things he has done in his life, all things that have been done _to him_. He just can’t shake the sense that it would be a terrible idea.

* * *

They don’t speak as they leave Pod’s apartment, get into the car, drive back to the travel agency. Brienne is tempted to just drop Jaime off, to not speak to him for the rest of the day. But she knows they shouldn’t leave things like this. So she parks the car, gets out, and walks towards the office without looking back. She knows Jaime is following close behind her.

When they’re back in the office, door locked, they sit in their chairs, and for a second it feels just like it was less than a couple of hours ago. Like they hadn’t moved at all, hadn’t gone to get takeout, hadn’t gone to Pod’s, hadn’t argued. But they did do all those things.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says again. “I shouldn’t have said that. About Renly.”

Brienne thinks back on what Jaime said, before he brought up Renly, and how he said it. “Why did you get so angry? I… I get that you think it’s risky, to take Pod in. But why did you get so _mad_?”

“I—I don’t know.” He leans back in his chair, looks up to the ghastly fluorescent lights in the ceiling. “I just keep thinking about how I was brought up. The things I had to learn. The things I had to do. Every day I look at Myrcella and Tommen, and how happy they are, and I think about the life we’ve built for them these past few years. It’s made me realise how—how fucked up everything was back then.” 

_Gods._ Brienne still can’t imagine a life without a loving father, though she had none of the privileges Jaime was born with. She can’t imagine how the Cause became so twisted for Jaime. “You always say these things about your childhood,” she probes. “About the years before—before Aerys Targaryen. But you hardly tell me any details.”

Jaime just keeps staring at the ceiling. She doesn’t expect him to tell her the story of his life right now. She just wants him to know, though he can’t quite keep his mouth shut most of the time, there’s so much that he doesn’t talk about. But then he says:

“I have a brother.”

 _What?_ “You… what?”

“It wasn’t just me and my cousin. I… I have a brother.”

Brienne can’t believe she’s known him for five years and this is the first she’s hearing of this. She waits for him to continue, but Jaime just shifts in his seat and looks down at his hands, intently, as if he’s comparing flesh and prosthetic for the very first time.

“I’m not ready,” he says, finally. “To talk about it.”

“Okay,” she breathes. “You don’t have to. I just wondered why you got so worked up about Pod, that’s all.”

“I’m… afraid.” He’s still examining his hands. “That he’ll be… like me.”

“Is that so bad?”

“Yes. If he’s anything like how I was back then. Or he turns out to be. I was trained to be… ruthless. Even killing Targaryen was—”

“ _You did the right thing._ ”

Jaime looks at her for the first time since they stepped back into this office. “You only know Jaime Lannister. You only know the man I’ve been for the past five years.”

“That’s the only man I need to know.” And then, on a hunch, she says: “You’re not your father.”

Jaime stiffens. “No. I wouldn’t do to the kids what he did to me. To us.”

“No. You’d protect them with your life. And you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t do it to Pod. If we trained him.”

He goes quiet again.

“Will you—will you just give me some time to think? About Pod.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“And even if… even if I agree. Even if Goodwin and the Centre give us the green light. We talk to the twins first. Explain it to them as best we can.”

“Of course.”

“Okay.”

Brienne thinks maybe she should leave Jaime to his thoughts now. But she wants to take one more weight off his mind. She’s been thinking about it since yesterday, and she doesn’t want to hold it in any longer. Maybe it’ll make things far more complicated. Maybe it’s the only solution they have, and they’ve been avoiding it altogether.

“About Pia.”

Jaime meets her eyes again. “What about her?”

Brienne lifts her chin, and holds his gaze.

“Marry her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise…? 
> 
> I’m still trying to figure out the details of Pod’s character arc, hence why I left it open for now. He’s based on an actual character from Season 5 called [Tuan](https://theamericans.fandom.com/wiki/Tuan_Eckert), a boy in his late teens who works for a Vietnamese intelligence agency. But let’s just say Tuan is not as much of a cinnamon roll as Pod.
> 
> As for Pia, I’ve stretched out the timeline quite a lot, but I’m essentially going to be following the main points of [Martha’s](https://theamericans.fandom.com/wiki/Martha_Hanson) storyline. Pod and Pia are the major players in the next arc, as it gets increasingly difficult for Jaime and Brienne to separate their personal and professional lives.
> 
> Thanks to [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/pseuds/jencat) for the beta this chapter! She just finished the series finale of The Americans before reading this, so she should be an inspiration to everyone who’s said they wanted to get started on the show.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	14. Vocabularies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of you are concerned about the Jaime/Pia situation. I’m basing this on canon events in The Americans, so it’s going ahead I’m afraid. However, rest assured that I’m not interested in having Jaime and Brienne’s relationship/personal development regress in any way. And for those worried about Pia – I might go for a slightly softer approach than The Americans, for her ending.
> 
> It’s been quite a while since I last updated, but moving forward, I’m going to try to get about one chapter out per week. Now that I’m juggling a lot of plot elements and characters though, it might sometimes take me a while to sort things out. On the plus side, the chapters will continue to be pretty lengthy.

“Remember what we said,” Jaime tells Myrcella and Tommen, as all three of them peer through the window that looks out onto their driveway. Brienne left to get Pod more than an hour ago, so they should be back anytime now. “Be polite, but you don’t have to be Pod’s friend if you don’t want to. And you tell us if there’s anything you don’t feel good about.”

“You’ve said this a whole bunch of times, Daddy,” Myrcella says, without taking her eyes off the road.

“I know, honey. But we might be helping Pod for a few months, at least, and I want to be absolutely sure that you’re alright while he’s here. If you don’t want him around, you have to let us know, okay?”

Myrcella looks up at him pointedly. “Daddy. You do too much thinking.”

Jaime stares right back. “I do just the right amount of thinking for you two.” He jabs at his temple stiffly with his prosthetic, and Myrcella giggles at the sight.

“Why doesn’t Pod have a home, Daddy?” Tommen asks. Jaime has only just noticed that the boy has one of his toy cats half squished into his pocket. Boots, he thinks, but Tommen has so many that he can’t keep track of all their names _and_ nicknames.

“Remember, Tom?” Myrcella cuts in. “Mummy and Daddy said Pod’s home isn’t safe right now. He had to come here from really far away. All the way from the other side of the world.”

“Oh yeah. That’s sad.” Tommen reaches into his pocket to grab a hold of Boots. “Doesn’t Pod have a Mummy and Daddy too?”

“No, baby,” Jaime says, gentle as he can. “Not—not anymore.”

Tommen’s eyes go wide at the prospect that Mummies and Daddies could potentially disappear. Gods, just when Jaime thought he had more than enough to worry about with this situation, he’s now going to have to pencil in a delicate conversation about mortality.

“That’s why he’s gonna stay with us,” Myrcella pronounces, unfazed, just as they spot the car coming up the road. “Our house is the most safest place in the world, and it has a Mummy and a Daddy in it.”

That’s as close to the truth as Myrcella can get, he supposes. It’s not as if Jaime can tell her how ecstatic Pod’s people were about having one of their agents train full-time with some of the Centre’s best officers. And as for the Centre—well, Goodwin said they were more concerned that the mission Brienne was supposed to run with Pod would still be successfully completed. Jaime had let Brienne make all her promises, in that meeting.

The twins stand ramrod straight in the hallway, with Jaime behind them, as Brienne unlocks the front door. Pod walks in, cautiously, with nothing more than a duffel bag and the clothes on his back.

“Hi, Pod,” Jaime greets, as he assesses him from head to toe once again. _Still looks eleven._ “Welcome to our home.”

“Hello, M-mister Lannister.”

Jaime is about to correct him—being called ‘Mr Lannister’ makes him feel like his father, even if that’s not his father’s name—but Brienne speaks first. “I told you,” she reminds him, “It’s perfectly fine to call us by our first names.”

“Yes, Jaime’s fine,” he echoes. “And these are our children, Myrcella and Tommen.”

“Th-thank you s-s-so much again for—for letting me stay.” Pod bends down a little to address the twins. “Hello. My name is P-podrick. B-but you can c-call me Pod.”

“Hello, Pod. I’m Myrcella. You can call me… Myrcella. Well, Tom calls me ‘Cella’, sometimes. There was that one time he tried ‘Myrcie’ but we both didn’t like it, right, Tom? And Mummy and Daddy call me ‘honey’ most of the time, but when they’re mad they call me Myrcella Lannister, all the way through. Oh, and they call Tom ‘baby’ even though we’re not babies anymore. But I don’t think you should call us ‘honey’ or ‘baby’ because that’s only for Mummy and Daddy. And I’m the only one who calls Tom ‘Tom’. So… I guess you can just call us Myrcella and Tommen!”

Myrcella beams up at Pod proudly upon completing her speech. Brienne shoots Jaime her how-much-sugar-did-you-give-her look. _None, I swear!_ he replies wordlessly.

“O-okay,” Pod replies, amused. “Th-that works f-fine for me.”

Tommen, on his part, doesn’t say even half as much as his sister. Instead, he just takes Boots out of his pocket and holds it out to Pod.

“Is, is this f-for me?” Pod asks.

Tommen nods. “To keep you safe.”

“I see. Like a ta-talisman.”

“Boots is a cat, not a man,” Tommen states with conviction. “You can tell because he has fur all over and pointy ears and whiskers around his nose.”

“Oh, I didn’t m-mean to c-call Boots a man. A ‘talisman’ is just…” Pod pauses, feeling for a definition, “a word for some—something that p-protects you.”

“Oh, okay. Boots _is_ a Talis-Man. He protects me.”

“I—I wouldn’t w-want to take B-Boots from you then.”

“I don’t mind. I have…” Tommen pauses to count in his head, just to be sure he doesn’t miss out any. “I have eleven other cats to help me. And, and your room is just next to ours. So Boots won’t be far.”

“Okay. Th-thank you, Tommen. This will… this will help v-very much.” Jaime observes how carefully Pod takes Boots from Tommen, as if the cat were real, though Tommen had no such qualms while transporting Boots in his pocket. “Just let me know if—if you ever m-miss him,” Pod offers, and Tommen nods vigorously in response, pleased with this arrangement.

“We’ll show you the house!” Myrcella shouts at the conclusion of this handover ceremony, grabbing Pod by the wrist and dragging him into the kitchen. She babbles on about the vital locations of the spoons and mugs, her favourite plate to eat off of, the excellence of Brienne’s cooking, how Jaime makes that one good soup. It must be nice, Jaime thinks, to be able to trust someone so readily, to invite them into your life just like that. It’s a trait he’s always manipulated in other people, in his line of work. Yet it’s something he’s never really felt, even at Myrcella’s age, even with his family. Maybe he’s only truly felt it with Brienne, and that took years to cultivate. But it must be nice, in theory, to live a life that isn’t filled with suspicion and doubt. It isn’t safe, though. He can’t decide if he wants Myrcella to stay this way.

Jaime leans his hip into the counter by the kitchen sink, folds his arms as he watches Tommen follow Myrcella’s elaborate house tour at a safe distance. He feels Brienne’s hand slip into the bend of his elbow. “The children seem to like him,” she says, softly.

Jaime still can’t find it in himself to be entirely optimistic. He turns on the tap so that their conversation will be lost in the sound of the running water. “They’ve always been friendly, even to people they’ve barely met.”

“Myrcella, maybe, but not Tommen. And Pod seems pretty good with them.”

“We’ll see,” Jaime says noncommittally, though he hasn’t missed all the signs that Pod _is_ pretty good with them. Then again, actions and motivations are two entirely different things.

“We’ll make it work, Jaime.” She tugs on his arm. “We’ll be careful.”

“We’re always careful. We’re _trained_ to be careful. Things still go wrong.”

“Hmm. Sometimes things go right when we take risks, too.”

He turns his head to her. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

“Your wife is trusting her gut.” Brienne puts her chin on his shoulder. “I can’t explain it. It just feels like the right thing to do.”

“I still don’t understand why his people recruited a fourteen-year-old.”

“The information in his file is… sparse. Mostly biographical information. But Pod swears everything else in there is accurate, besides his age. Seems like they were desperate to expand their network, and he was desperate for a way out of whatever situation he was in with his last foster family.”

Just then, Jaime feels a slight yank on the leg of his jeans. He looks down to see Tommen, who has wandered off from Myrcella’s rambling explanation of the concept of television. Tommen stretches his arms up in expectation, so Jaime picks up his son, mock-groaning as he does so.

“You’re getting too big. Soon I won’t be able to lift you up.”

Tommen looks at him quizzically. “You can carry Mummy just fine, and she’s much bigger than I am.” Jaime spots Brienne’s expression of alarm out of the corner of his eye as she reaches behind him to shut off the tap.

“What do you mean?” Jaime plays dumb.

“The other night. We saw you carry Mummy into your bedroom.”

Brienne is retreating to the living room now to wrangle the very eager Myrcella, but not before mouthing at him, _we are not doing that again._

“You weren’t supposed to be awake.” Jaime scolds Tommen lightly. He would very much like to avoid explaining the hows and whys and what-happened-afters of that night.

Tommen just shrugs. “You were really noisy coming up the stairs. We woke up.”

 _Alright, time to change the subject._ “So, what do you think of Pod so far? It was very kind of you to give him Boots.”

“He’s nice. He taught me a new word,” Tommen says, as if Jaime hadn’t been standing right there when it happened. “Daddy, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Tommen cups his hands around Jaime’s ear and whispers very dramatically. “Why does Pod talk funny?”

“Oh. Well, some people have what’s called a stutter. Sometimes they can’t say words in one go, and they have to keep trying until they get there.”

“Oh, no, I don’t mean that.” Tommen looks at Jaime like _he’s_ the judgmental one. “Words take time, Daddy. Unless you’re Myrcella. Cella’s really really fast at words, much faster than me and Pod. But I mean the... the way he says stuff. It sounds different.”

“Ah, the way he _pronounces_ words. The sounds.”

“Yeah. It’s not the same.”

“Pod grew up in another country, Tommen. They speak a different language there. He only learned our language later on, so he pronounces some words with different sounds. It’s like… it’s like his mouth learned how to work differently when he was younger. Does that make sense?”

“So if I tried to speak Pod’s language, he’ll think I sound funny?”

“Maybe. Maybe he thinks the way you speak _this_ language sounds funny too.” Jaime pinches Tommen’s cheek. “You know, learning a new language takes a lot of work. You have to figure out what all these new words mean. Learning how to say them out loud can be even more difficult, sometimes.”

“Do you know how to speak other languages, Daddy?”

“No,” Jaime lies, “just this one.”

* * *

They give Pod some time to settle in. The contents of his duffel bag are so meagre that he can’t yet make his room his own, though it turns out he brought enough books with him to start filling his bookshelf. They’ll have to bring him shopping for more clothes, among other things. He will need to be enrolled in high school soon enough.

A couple of days after his arrival, Brienne hands Pod the only key to the bottom drawer in his closet. “For whatever you need to keep safe, in the short term. Not the most secure, but it’ll give you some privacy.” She knocks out the base to show him the false bottom they built in years ago, but never got around to using. “You’ll need to be extra careful about keeping things away from the kids.” She’s noticed that Myrcella and Tommen have been in and out of his room, though it wasn’t too long ago that they were both scared of the mysterious extra bedroom next door, for no real reason other than the fact that it had been so thoroughly unused. Until she had to prepare it for Pod, Brienne barely stepped in there herself, besides those weeks all those years ago when she slept in what is now Pod’s bed, after that first argument with Jaime.

Later, they bring Pod down to the basement to show him the compartment behind the washing machine, so he can access anything he might need for communicating, recording, decoding, and so on. He’ll have to learn something of how it works for them, with the Centre, though he has to be accountable to his agency and follow their own practices too. Brienne’s weekly schedule is still tacked to the inside of the compartment, as it has been for five years, but the code won’t make much sense to Pod at all, so the most he’ll know is when, not what, or how. There’s still a locked section he won’t be able to get into, for whatever they need to store for their other missions. And they won’t tell him about what they hide in their bedroom, or in the garage.

Brienne sends Pod out of the basement after, locking the door behind him before turning to face Jaime.

“You’re going to Pia’s, later?” she asks, though she already knows the answer. They haven’t really spoken about Pia, or Peck, since Brienne made her suggestion a couple of weeks ago. Jaime hadn’t reacted well, then. Actually, he had been too—shocked, maybe, or resigned—to react very much at all.

(He hasn’t mentioned his brother again, either.)

“Yeah,” Jaime confirms, a little sullenly.

“Have you thought more about—“

“Pia is happy enough, for now,” Jaime interjects, abruptly, as if he’s finally found the opportunity to say everything he’s been holding in for weeks. “Now that I’ve met her parents, we should be fine for a while longer. Maybe we can have her meet a relative of mine, to reassure her, in a couple of months. But, this— _marrying her_.” He sighs. “It just—it feels like a nuclear option, Brienne.”

“We can’t keep avoiding this, Jaime,” Brienne pushes back, though perhaps she’s been avoiding the issue too, even if she brought it all up in the first place. “You might not want to do it so soon, but I think it’s inevitable. You’ve been with her for years. One day we’re going to need Pia to do something more than tell us about all the things she just _happens_ to overhear.” Brienne walks over to the laundry basket, and starts sorting out the clothes. “At least if we figure things out now, we can plan for it. Peck can’t be there every night, obviously, but it will have to be more often. We’ll have Pod now to help us with the kids if I have to be out too, once we’re sure they’re comfortable with each other. And we should probably have the Centre arrange for a separate apartment for Peck—”

Jaime steps in beside her, and puts his hand over the laundry pile, as if to shield it from her. “You always do this.” There’s something dark in his voice.

“Do—do what?” _What does he mean—when have they ever had to deal with a situation like this?_

“This, this _planning_. When I told you I had to meet my cousin, all you could talk about was the _schedule._ Now, you’re telling me to _marry someone else,_ and you’re talking about _logistics_. And—gods, you’re doing _laundry_ at the same time. It’s like you don’t… feel anything. Like you’re not bothered at all. But I know you are.”

He pauses, unsure. “Aren’t you?”

 _How could he even—_ “Of course I am.” _She’s the one who waits for him at home while—_ “But this is the life we lead. It’s the life I chose.”

“You didn’t choose _me_.” There’s all this desperation in his tone. “You chose the Programme, the Cause. You didn’t choose _me._ You didn’t choose to _love me_. You might have gone on for the next twenty years just doing your job, _feeling nothing._ But it happened, didn’t it, between us? _Incidentally?_ ”

_Why does it matter—the circumstances? She loves him now, isn’t that enough?_

He just keeps going, like he can’t resist twisting the knife. “And now you have to fall asleep alone knowing I’m with her—wait for me to come back home, back to our bed, knowing I just left hers—”

“Stop—why are you saying these things? What’s the _point_ of this?”

“You want me to face the truth of this life, Brienne? _Face yours._ ”

_Fuck him._

“You think I don’t know?” Brienne can feel herself vibrating with anger, with the weight of his accusation. “You think I don’t live it, don’t feel it? It _hurts_ , okay? Is that what you want to hear? What exactly are you hoping to achieve, by—by provoking me? I’m just—I’m trying to make all of this easier for you, Jaime!”

“It’s not supposed to be _easy_ , Brienne.” Jaime is pacing, all this resentment leaking out of him that she can’t fully fathom. “You’re my wife, you’re the mother of my children, and you’re asking me to _marry someone else_! What part of that is _easy_?”

“I’m not just your _wife_ , I’m also your _partner_. Nothing about this job,” _oh, she hears herself—maybe—is he afraid that she thinks of him only as_ work _—_ “nothing about this _life_ was ever meant to be easy. I know that. We both do. I’m trying to make the best out of the situation, is that so wrong?”

“And is it so wrong that I’m getting sick of just _making the best out of the situation_?” He’s stopped pacing, but he can’t look at her now. His knuckles grow white as he grips the edge of the washing machine. “Sometimes,” he swallows, “sometimes I think you’re the only reason I’m still doing any of this.”

Brienne feels suffocated. By what exactly, she can’t be sure.

“Are you saying—you… you’ve thought of defecting?”

“No! Gods, of course that’s your first thought.” _No, it wasn’t her first thought at all, but if he’s hanging by a thread she needs to know. If the thread is_ her _then—_ “I’ve told you before, this is the only life I know. And I won’t do something so, so craven. But in this life, we have to believe in something, to keep going. You have the Cause. I… I don’t. Not anymore.”

He looks up at her, finally. “But I’m still here. I still wake up every single day, do everything that is expected of me, and more. Because at the end of the day, I get to come back to _you._ You and the kids. I think—I think you’re that _something_ for me.”

It is devotion and despair all at once. Brienne doesn’t know how to be the repository of all this emotion, all this intensity. Jaime’s feelings, and—her own.

Jaime lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Isn’t it—isn’t it absurd that I’m, that Peck is sleeping with Pia just so I can come home to you? Brienne, I’ll—I’ll fucking marry Pia, just because _you_ asked. But, you don’t get to pretend that it’s fine. _You don’t._ ”

Every bone in her body wants to scream that he can’t tell her what to do, that he can’t pin this all on her, _she can’t bear to be his only reason for living this life_ , and then he continues, “You don’t _have_ to pretend _._ You _can’t possibly_.” He hears himself, too, wants to adjust, to amend his words. “But… but if you _do_ think it’s fine then—”

Brienne is trying her best to understand what Jaime is saying, what he thinks he’s saying, what he’s actually saying, even if he doesn’t know it.

“Jaime, I—” There’s something fragile about him, something she thinks will break if he takes what she’s about to say next the wrong way, so she puts her hands firmly on either side of his face, as if to keep him held together. “I don’t think you’re being… fair, to me. It’s not fair to make me feel like I’m, I’m somehow deficient for just trying to _cope_.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Wait, just—just listen to me. If I’m pretending to be fine, it’s because _I need to_ , Jaime. It’s how I’ve always survived. It’s what I’ve always done, to get through life. I… I don’t know how else to _be_.”

She takes a deep breath. She still finds it difficult to say the words, but she thinks he needs to hear it.

“It’s not because I—I love you any less.”

Jaime looks at her, struck. Maybe he’s only just understood that it’s what he’s been trying to tell her all along. _I’m afraid that you don’t love me as much as I love you._

“I never dreamed that I would have any of this,” Brienne keeps going, her hands still on his cheeks. “A family. That we would actually—love each other. It’s… I’m happier than I thought I would ever be, because of you.” _Why is this so painful to say?_ “It makes a lot of things easier, but it’s also—harder, in many ways. And I can’t fall apart. You can’t—it’s not fair for you to ask me to fall apart just to, to prove that I love you.”

He’s silent, absorbing. His hand is grasping hers now, his thumb rubbing, rubbing, in time with his thoughts.

“I—” he says, at last, “I’ve never had to do this before.”

Brienne moves her hands down so she can link her fingers around the back of his neck. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve, I’ve slept with people before. Lied to them. It’s always just felt like, like work, all these years. I never really felt like I was being… unfaithful, to my cousin, back then. Or—disloyal. But I’ve never done it for this amount of time. It’s never gotten so… deep, the way it has with Pia.”

Jaime wraps his arms around her waist, but speaks downwards, softly. He can’t look at her again. “I don’t know if I’m worried that you don’t… love me enough. Or, or maybe I am, sometimes. Maybe I just, I need to hear you say it. That you love me. Despite everything. Even though I _know._ But it’s also—I also want you to—I don’t want you to think that I’m doing this _willingly_. I’d—Brienne, I’d give you all of me if I could. But if I… _when_ I marry her—I’d have to give you even less than I do now.”

Jaime stops. He’s trying to work things out in his brain, she knows, so she waits.

“And… I’m afraid that if I have to give you less, then one day you’ll think—you’ll think _I’m_ no longer enough. Or you’ll realise… I wasn’t enough for you all along.”

“Oh,” is all she can say.

Too much, and not enough—Brienne used to think that about herself. She still thinks about it, more often than she would like. Not so long ago, it was the reason why she couldn’t give all of herself to Jaime. But—she had never truly considered the possibility that he might feel the same about himself, for her. That it might be why he tries to give her _so much._

“I don’t think—” she’s trying to put the pieces together, too— “maybe it doesn’t work that way, Jaime. Maybe it’s not about wholes, or parts, or loyalty, or what we feel like we have to do to prove—anything. We live… we live a life where it isn’t always possible, to give all of ourselves to each other.” She strokes the back of his neck. “But maybe for us, it’s just about—I don’t know— _belonging_. To each other. At the end of each day.”

Jaime meets her eyes at that.

“Jaime,” and Brienne surprises even herself with her confidence, “you’re mine, aren’t you? And I’m—I’m yours. I’ll always be.”

“Always?” he asks, though she thinks he’s eased already at her words. “How can you be so sure?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s impossible to be sure. But it’s what I believe, now.” And she does. It doesn’t make anything about Pia easier, inside her. But it’s something to hold onto. It’s true, she has the Cause. But Jaime is that _something_ for her, too. _Oh, she should say it out loud._

“You’re not just—incidental,” Brienne draws him closer. She thinks about his life, how everything had always just _been there_ , or was chosen for him. Even her. But— “We chose each other, didn’t we?” She kisses him softly on one cheek. “We didn’t _have to_.” She kisses him on the other. “You—Jaime, you keep me going, too.”

Jaime looks… relieved. “Brienne,” he exhales, just one word in response. It’s a prayer, something between gratitude and worship; or perhaps it’s both, equally and entirely, encapsulated in her name. She doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve this. She doesn’t care.

“How long do you have till you need to leave?” she whispers into his lips.

Jaime finds his way to the hem of her shirt, lifts it slowly.

“Long enough.”

* * *

On the twins’ sixth nameday, they go to the park for a picnic, as they’ve done without fail for their past four namedays. Besides letting the children pick out the menu, and some balloons to bring with them, it’s not anything particularly special—Jaime remembers much more lavish, formal affairs from his childhood. But this is a bit of a Lannister tradition, a small oasis of the ordinary. Myrcella and Tommen seem perfectly happy with the arrangement, though they’ve attended their fair share of overly elaborate nameday parties. Jaime thinks Brienne has done well to curb any inclination they might have had towards envy.

This year, the nameday picnic also has the added benefit of introducing Pod to the neighbourhood, organically. His original cover story transfers well enough, and people who come over with nameday greetings for the twins also nod and smile and praise the Lannisters for their generosity and compassion. “I wish I could do what you do,” they say, and other variations on the theme. After one too many of these platitudes, Brienne mutters to Jaime, “I can’t imagine any of them doing what we do.” Then again, if they’ve been playing all their cards right for the past few years, he doubts any of the neighbours can imagine them doing what they do for a living, too.

Myrcella and Tommen are running back to them now, after having dragged Pod off to play whatever game they’ve invented for the day. Pod is trailing a little behind them.

“Mummy! Daddy! Pod gave us a present!” Myrcella exclaims, with Tommen nodding excitedly beside her.

“Did he? Would you like to show us what it is?” Brienne asks.

Myrcella points at the sky. “ **Sky**.”

Jaime freezes. Did she just say—

“ **Grass** ,” Tommen follows, pointing at the ground. Jaime can hear Brienne trying to control her breathing.

“ **Tree**!” “ **Sun**!” “ **Bird**!”

“What—what are you saying?” Jaime knows exactly what they’re saying. It’s a language that they’re not supposed to know at all. It’s a language that they’re not supposed to know because it’s _theirs_.

“Pod taught us some new words, Daddy!”

“That’s—that’s great, honey.” Jaime looks over at Brienne, who can’t seem to process what is happening.

Tommen cocks his head. “Isn’t this a good present, Mummy?”

She pulls herself out of her discomfort. “Oh, it’s a wonderful present, baby,” she says, with strained enthusiasm. Tommen is still looking at her strangely.

Pod has approached them by now, but they can’t ask him anything about it right here. Probably not until after the twins go to bed. He seems, at least, to have noticed their uneasiness, but Brienne silences him with a look.

Later that night, they meet in Pod’s bedroom. The boy is sitting on his bed, nervous under Brienne’s cold gaze. Jaime leans his back against the closed door.

“Pod,” Brienne begins, “what you did today was really dangerous.”

“I’m—I’m s-sorry,” he apologises in earnest, “I just wanted to, to g-give them something for their nameday. And all I h-have are… words.”

“What does that mean?” Jaime snaps. “All you have are _words_?”

Pod looks at him, wide-eyed. “I thought—I thought you knew!”

“Knew _what_?”

“Lan-languages. It’s, it’s why I was recruited. P-partly.”

This is the first either of them are hearing about this.

“This—Pod, this isn’t in your file,” Brienne says, perplexed.

“I—I d-don’t know why it isn’t in there. I th-thought you knew.”

_These fucking inter-agency partnerships._

“How many languages do you speak, exactly?” Jaime asks, trying his best to stay calm.

“Only t-two, this one and, and my own. It’s—it’s hard for me to b-be fluent in more, because of…” Because of his stuttering. “B-but, I can read, and, and, and write, about five or s-six.”

“How—”

“My—my family. They had a, a huge library, b-back home. Be-before it was des—destroyed in the war. I never p-played much with other k-kids. S-so I read instead. Learned.”

“You said you only speak two languages.” Brienne is trying to wrap her head around everything, Jaime can tell. “But you taught the kids our—our native language.”

“I j-just—I c-can’t manage sentences, out loud. Just, just words. One… at a time.”

“But you can read, and write it,” Jaime says. “You know enough to—” _Fuck, their argument._ “You understood what we said, back at your apartment?” Brienne looks back at Jaime in panic.

“No! N-not, not all of it. It was t-too quick, for me, and too—too informal. I—I’ve only ever learned f-from books. But it’s why, it’s why I thought it was f-fine. To teach the k-kids a few words. Since, since you used it.” Pod is digging his hands into the mattress, squeezing the words out of himself. Jaime wonders if this might be the most he’s ever had to say out loud in one go. “I, I didn’t t-tell them what it was. I d-didn’t say it was—your language. I swear. I just—I thought it m-might be nice for them to, to, to know just a few words.”

_Of all the well-meaning gestures…_

“Pod,” Brienne starts, before Jaime can get a word in. “You can’t do this anymore. Our entire lives are built on the idea that we are from this country. That we only speak this language. I wish they could learn our language too, but they can’t. It’s not safe, not here. Especially given the… political situation. People—they won’t like hearing the kids speak our language, even if they don’t suspect us of anything. Do you understand?”

The boy nods his head, sadly.

“You can teach them your own, if you like,” Brienne offers. “If the twins ask. It doesn’t compromise us if you do that, and it fits your cover. But you still have to be careful. Sometimes—a lot of the time—people don’t like difference. And difference… attracts attention that we don’t need.”

“Okay. I’m, I’m sorry.”

They leave Pod to his own regrets, eventually, after he’s apologised a few more times. When they’re back in their bedroom, Jaime can’t help but say: “The boy is daft.”

“Jaime!”

“He’s obviously not stupid, if he knows _six_ languages. Seven hells, at _fourteen_ , and pretty much self-taught, if we believe his story.” Jaime sighs. “But he lacks common sense, wife. We’re going to have to train his _common sense_.”

“He meant well.”

“He’s naive.”

“I’ll—I’ll manage it, Jaime. Now we know about his skills, at least. It could be useful.”

“I suppose,” he concedes, though he can’t think of how Pod’s abilities might help with any of their current missions.

Brienne sits on the edge of the bed. “I—I know I shouldn’t think so, but… it was nice. To hear them say those words.”

Jaime thinks back to the moment Myrcella had said **sky** , and how his nerves had been underpinned by this warmth of recognition. “It was.”

“Do you…” She stops for a moment, as if considering the wisdom of asking whatever question is about to spill from her lips. “It made me wonder. Do you think they’d have been happy? Back home?”

He scoffs instinctively. “Not if they had been raised by my father.” Jaime thinks of his first son, though he doesn’t like to. Jaime had seen him so infrequently, even when they were in the same country. The ugly truth is—he finds it difficult to even consider him his son. The boy—well, he must be close to a man now—had grown cruel under the guidance of the General, in a way even Cersei never really was.

“Well,” Brienne muses, oblivious to his thoughts, “if everything else could be the same. If _we_ raised them. Just… not here.”

“I don’t know,” Jaime says, honestly, as he sits next to her. “It’s all tangled up, isn’t it? Would we have been the same kind of parents back home?” _Would he ever have been able to leave Cersei?_ “So many things would have been different.”

“I guess. There’s—history, back home. There’s our culture, but also…”

“I know.” It’s the personal histories, really. There were pleasant memories, of course, but also unhappy ones, for them both, in many ways. They’ve brought the bulk of these with them still, to this country, but coming here—perhaps it made it easier to leave some of these things behind.

“I think about it, sometimes.” Brienne digs her toes into the floor as she says this. “If we ever had to bring them back home for any reason. I don’t know if they could adapt. Even if they’ll have us with them.”

Jaime allows himself to fall back onto the bed. “I don’t know if I’d want them to go there at all.”

She turns toward him. “Ever?”

“Yeah.”

“You… prefer it, here?” She’s nervous about his answer, he can feel it.

“I don’t know if it’s about preference.” He rests the back of his flesh hand on his forehead. “We’ve made a life for them here, haven’t we? And it’s—it’s a good one, so far. For them, if not always for us. I… I want it to stay that way. For as long as possible.” 

Brienne lies back too, next to him. “Me too,” she says quietly, though it seems to echo in the room.

Jaime looks over at her, genuinely surprised. “... Really?”

“I—I think so. We’re—we’re fighting for something better. With the Cause.” She’s speaking to the ceiling, as if voicing her thoughts to no one in particular, though Jaime is right beside her. “Maybe I’d like to bring them to _that_ world. But it doesn’t really exist _now_ , does it?”

“No,” Jaime answers, and leaves it at that. They stay there in silence, both bodies half-lying on the bed, both pairs of feet still planted firmly on the ground. He doesn’t tell her that he thinks that world might never exist. He’s not ready to say it out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I’m really making all this shit up now, but next chapter I’ll be back to referencing specific events from The Americans.
> 
> Thanks to [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign) aka [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde) for being my beta for this chapter, and giving me tips on both how to write dialogue for kids and how to fictionally parent said kids.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	15. Vows

They try to build up to it, slowly. The prospect of Peck marrying Pia has all the discomfort that comes with the anticipation of a future threat—the threat of eventually needing more from her, for the Cause—even without taking into account everything else that makes it painful. But considering how often they have to react to things at a split second, Brienne almost relishes the luxury of planning, of preparing themselves for this eventuality over the course of a few weeks and months. She thinks maybe it soothes Jaime, too, to have some control over everything.

They have Goodwin arrange for an apartment for Peck, so he can finally invite Pia over to his home. Brienne visits, once, to look over the place, see if they might have missed any details. It is something sparse but well-managed, befitting the reserved and careful man that Jaime has shaped Peck to be, the overworked Internal Affairs agent who is too often out of town for his own assignments to really make this place anything other than an occasional rest stop. Jaime tells Brienne, after Pia’s visit, that he thinks it made Pia feel a little sorry for him. But she seems to admire Peck’s neatness, the care that has gone into the apartment’s upkeep, regardless of his busy schedule. It nurtures Pia’s affection and trust, deep as they are already.

Brienne takes Jaime up on his suggestion to have Pia meet a relative of his, and volunteers herself as his sister. Well, half-sister, they decide. It’s a bit safer, even if she’ll be in disguise too, given how different their facial structures are—Jaime’s sharp where Brienne’s is blunt.

(She doesn’t think about the one time she met his cousin. It startled her, how much they looked like each other.)

Jaime is anxious when she tells him she wants to meet Pia, and to be frank, Brienne’s not so sure about it herself. But she wants more of a grasp on this part of Jaime’s life that still feels so indefinite to her, despite Jaime telling her almost everything that is necessary for her to know.

They meet for dinner at an unassuming restaurant near Pia’s apartment, and Brienne realises only as she arrives that this is the first time she’s ever really seen Jaime in full disguise. She’s seen him in Peck’s clothes, but he always removes his wig and glasses before he comes home. Jaime looks so _different_ , even if she knows it’s Jaime, her Jaime, under all of it. He’s still blonde, but it is something dustier, frail, as if it would wither away into nothing if she even so much as touched his wig. It’s not at all like the brilliant and shining gold that she’s run her fingers through countless times. Brienne remembers, too, how annoyed he was when he mentioned the glasses he planned to wear as Peck. They belong on a man much older and much less fashionable, he’d said. She struggles not to smile to herself upon seeing them.

Brienne shakes hands with Pia, her large one easily enveloping Pia’s petite palm, which is connected to a slim arm, which is connected to a willowy body in a floral print dress. A few years ago, she might have felt the need to suppress some feeling of envy awoken by Pia’s more conventional femininity. Perhaps she might have thought that Pia, soft Pia, who seems to ask for protection simply by existing, would be exactly what a man wanted—a man like Jaime. But there are no men like Jaime. She thinks now of his perennial veneration of her own body, a body that refuses rather than requests protection, and finds that her mind doesn’t drift to that place so intuitively anymore. Instead, she goes to that night not so long ago, and not for the first time, when she felt the hardening of Jaime’s cock against her thigh as she pinned him to the floor of the garage, and they abandoned their sparring in favour of another type of duel.

“Peck said that you blush easily,” Pia comments, with a sweet smile, disrupting her thoughts. Brienne can see Jaime smirking at her in her peripheral vision, something recognisable within this unfamiliarity of Josmyn Peckledon, and she knows he’s read it all in her face, her mind. “I can’t imagine him ever blushing,” Pia continues, unsuspecting, “but I can see a bit of that family resemblance.” Brienne wants to laugh at this—her, Jaime, resembling each other?—but she thinks of a saying from back home, that husbands and wives grow to look like each other over the years. The more alike they look, the longer and happier the marriage will be.

Dinner is awkward, but not as painful as she’d expected. Pia is eager, and gullible, but there’s a kind of honesty in her, and a commitment to her work, that Brienne quite appreciates, even if she’s working for the other side. It’s strange to see Jaime interacting with another woman, holding her hand, laughing about their own inside jokes, but then again, it’s—it’s not Jaime. It really isn’t. It’s not just how he looks, it’s all his mannerisms too. He’s so _good_ at this. At being someone else. She’s more impressed, really, than anything.

“How was it? For you?” Jaime asks the next morning, when he’s back from Pia’s. She wiggles her feet to the side underneath the covers, so he can sit by them on the bed. Though his wig and glasses are gone, he doesn’t jump straight into his ritual of shedding Peck’s skin, like he usually does. He wants to know. The anxiety in him is still there, and he seems primed to comfort her, remind her that he’s hers, first and foremost, even if not entirely.

“Weird,” Brienne says, simply.

“Just—just weird?”

“But… good.”

“ _Good?_ ” He looks ready to fall off the bed.

“Yeah. I didn’t expect that, either. But I could see how much Peck _isn’t_ you, and… it helped. It wasn’t like I was looking at _you_ with another woman.” She nudges him with her foot from under the covers. “You’re… you’re very good at being someone else.”

“Huh,” he says, as he unbuttons his shirt.

Brienne thinks back to their argument in the basement. “Are you going to be upset that I’m not upset?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Jaime shrugs off his shirt and makes his way to the bathroom. Before he closes the door, he looks back at Brienne. “For what it’s worth, you’ve gotten pretty good yourself, at being someone else.”

She considers his comment while he’s in the shower. Part of her improvement is practice, she supposes, over the past five or so years. But she thinks part of it might be that she’s just—more secure, more stable, in her own sense of self. It makes pretending-to-be-someone-else feel less like it might diminish, or fracture her. Whereas for Jaime—she thinks he got so good at pretending-to-be-someone-else because for a very long time, he didn’t want to be himself at all.

In the end, though they’ve tried their best to retain some degree of autonomy throughout all this, the timing of Peck’s proposal is decided by the Centre, and by forces beyond their control, as things always are. Tensions between the two countries are rising again, and after some slip-ups by other agents, the Centre is pressuring them for as much information as they can get about what exactly Counterintelligence knows about any of their activities.

(As Brienne had predicted, they _do_ need more now than just what Pia happens to overhear.)

The best Jaime can offer the Centre is to have Pia plant a recording device in her boss’s office. Most of the actual classified discussions happen in a secure room that is swept much more often and more thoroughly for bugs than even the office of the head of Counterintelligence. But that office is what Pia has full access to, and her boss still takes meetings in there, at least. And so, in quick succession, Peck presents Pia with both a very special engagement ring, and a very special pen that she is to slip amongst the stationery—to gather evidence, he tells her, that will pinpoint an alleged mole whom Internal Affairs is very close to identifying.

Brienne doesn’t know why she’s surprised at all that Pia readily agrees to, and even looks forward to, a simple city hall ceremony. Peck can be very persuasive—she’s seen it to some extent in Jaime, though he tends to defer to _her_ more often than not, as if he wants to relinquish that power that he has over other people. It is at Peck’s suggestion that Pia discovers she relishes the thrill and secrecy of this elopement, compared to the over-the-top romanticism of a large wedding, as long as her parents can still be present.

On the day of their appointment, Brienne arrives at City Hall as Peck’s half-sister, with Goodwin in tow as their father. Jaime—Peck—introduces them to Pia’s parents, and once again, they hear a comment about the family resemblance. People truly see what they want to see.

Brienne finds the whole process very administrative, and the vows recited are mostly legal in nature. But the clerk officiating the wedding still manages to infuse it all with a sort of kindness and hope. In fact, the man seems seized by some bout of poeticism, and before he begins he pronounces, grandly:

“An oath is both a statement for the present, and a promise to the future.” (He smiles warmly at Peck and Pia.) “It is the means by which we humans tell each other, ‘We are in this for the long haul.’”

Perhaps the clerk says this to every couple, to soften the hard edges of the ceremony. But it seems this man, too, possesses a sincerity so practiced that it hardly feels practiced at all.

As she watches Peck put a ring on Pia’s finger, and Pia on his, Brienne realises that she is oddly moved by this gesture. She and Jaime have never worn wedding rings. The custom has grown popular in this country, but there is still technically no need for rings in the Faith. So no one ever found it strange, or ever asked why they don’t wear them, even though the Lannisters never stepped foot in the neighbourhood’s sept at all. In any case, Brienne had never felt the need to have that physical, external proof of her relationship with Jaime, even after they had filled in all the voids in their marriage with their love. But she can see the symbolism of it, now.

(Later, when Peck and Pia kiss, she looks away. It’s not Jaime—and he’s dressed Peck in a suit that he’d never be caught dead in otherwise—but it’s still easier to not have to see it.)

Out in the corridor after the ceremony, Brienne finds herself alone with Jaime. Pia is off speaking to both her parents and Goodwin, flush with a newlywed glow. She won’t have a long honeymoon with Peck, because of their respective jobs, but the Centre did allow Peck to splurge on one night in the presidential suite of the most expensive hotel in the city, so she has that to look forward to.

“It was interesting, what the clerk said,” Brienne breaks the silence. “About oaths.”

Jaime shuffles his feet. “A little indulgent if you ask me,” he replies, somewhat contemptuously.

She smiles. “We’ve said more indulgent things to each other, I think.” _I’m yours. I’ll always be._

“That’s different.” Jaime looks over to check on Pia, who is still distracted, then hooks a finger briefly around one of Brienne’s. “That’s _us_. Not just some pretty ideas offered to me by someone who knows nothing about my life.”

“Well, it made me think, anyway. The whole ceremony,” she says, as Jaime lets go of her finger. “You and I—we didn’t go through all that. We were… never really married.”

That feels wrong to say, because they _are_. So Brienne corrects herself: “I mean, we never had any kind of wedding.” They had been given a marriage licence—just a piece of paper—during their first meeting in his father’s office, and that had been that.

“No,” Jaime acknowledges, but says nothing further.

“It’s funny. I know they’re just words that people say.” Brienne leans back against the wall; she’s talking more than she should—Jaime doesn’t seem in the mood to chat—but she can’t seem to stop. “Do you think things would have been different between us? From the start. If we had said them.”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, and his reticence makes her want to bite her tongue, swallow it whole.

Then, Jaime looks at her. But _looking_ seems too subtle a word for it, because she feels like he’s looking at her more intently than he has ever looked at her before, the green of his eyes swimming with, with something—

“What if we said them now?”

* * *

Planning a wedding—or a vow renewal, in their case, since they’re supposed to be married already—isn’t as straightforward as Jaime thought it would be. He didn’t think he’d have to do very much at all, for a ceremony so small, with just them and the kids and Pod. He had suggested to Brienne that they go to a sept, though neither of them had ever been religious, and she had agreed, purely to set it as far apart from Peck and Pia’s wedding as possible. Though the Cause frowns upon organised religion, the Faith is still reluctantly tolerated in small pockets back home, so Jaime supposes it won’t feel too much like a betrayal of her principles.

In truth, he had suggested the sept partly because he was somehow under this false impression that you could just show up at the place unannounced, and spring your request on some poor septon by waving your existing forgery of a marriage license in his face. But it turns out that, just like at City Hall, you still had to put at least some effort into making these appointments, even if all you really want is the ceremonial part of it. Jaime wishes he could have asked Donyse for help, given that she’s playing septa still, but she doesn’t actually know him as Jaime, or Brienne as Brienne, or the fact that they have two children. And a foster child, too, now.

Ultimately, they decide to make a short family trip out of it. Brienne wants to drive out to the coast, so they can bring the kids to the ocean, which they’ve never had the chance to do. Jaime knows she grew up on an island and misses the water, but he has his reservations.

“Are you sure you want to drive all that way?” Jaime asks, one morning in their bedroom.

“You know we should, Jaime. It’s more discreet,” Brienne replies, as she picks out her t-shirt for the day from the closet.

“Are you sure you want to be in the sun all day?” She is pulling the t-shirt over her head now, and he can’t stop thinking of tan lines. “Won’t your skin… burn? Do you want to be sunburnt at our own wedding?”

Brienne pauses, her head barely through the collar. “I grew up on beaches, Jaime. I know how to deal with these things. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“I never went to the beach, often,” he mumbles, sitting down on the bed.

“I know. That’s why I thought it’d be nice to go together.” She adjusts her shirt and walks over to him. “The kids have barely seen the ocean, and they’ve never actually been in the water.”

“Yeah.” Jaime sighs. “What I mean is—I never really _liked_ the beach.”

Brienne puts her hands on his shoulders. “Wasn’t your family home on the coast, too?”

“It was, but we were hardly ever there. And it was just… on a rock. It was the cliff, and then the sea.” Jaime tries to paint a picture for her with his hands, his prosthetic standing in for a rockface. “There wasn’t sand in between. And I… I don’t like sand.”

“You don’t like _sand_?”

“It gets… everywhere. It sticks to your skin.” Jaime shudders.

Brienne looks as if she’s about to laugh at him, the unsympathetic woman. “Is that your only objection to this?”

“I suppose,” he admits, begrudgingly.

She lifts his face up with her hands and looks at him very seriously. “I promise you, Jaime, that I will help you through the ordeal of _sand_.”

“That should be in your wedding vows, wife.”

Brienne really does laugh, this time.

Later that day, Jaime calls the sept in a small town along the coast, and makes an appointment for the weekend after. The septon seems reluctant to do it at such short notice, and for people outside of his congregation, though that can’t be a very large one, in that area. But he eventually comes around when Jaime tells him how small and simple they want the whole thing to be, although the man might have taken some offence when Jaime asks for the “Faith-lite” version of the ceremony. He solemnly reminds Jaime that they will have to come prepared with their house cloaks.

“What do we do if we don’t have cloaks?” Brienne asks, when he reports back.

He sits down next to her at the dining table. “There are generic ones we could use at the sept. And when he heard our last names, he said those are old enough that apparently we can just… buy the cloaks off the shelf at a store. With the sigils and all.”

“ _Buy them at a store?_ ” Brienne looks at him incredulously. She may have grown up poor, and her father never raised her in the Faith, Jaime knows, but her community still took pride in some traditions, in making things by hand. “That’s so… crass. Anyone could pretend to be anybody.”

“Crass but convenient,” Jaime shrugs, ignoring the irony of her statement. “I don’t think we have time to get them specially made, if we want to do this next weekend. And people buy rings at a store, don’t they?” They’ve decided against the rings. Neither of them much enjoys wearing jewellery.

“I guess.”

He reaches across the table to grab hold of her hand. “Do you want to do it in our real house colours? We might be able to find something close enough. Maybe we could get away with—”

“No,” she declares, with so much certainty that Jaime feels a little stunned by it.

“You… you don’t think it’s safe?”

“It’s not—it’s not _just_ that.” She weaves her fingers with his. “Remember when you told me that I only know Jaime Lannister, not who you were before?”

He does. “You said—that's the only man you need to know.”

Brienne stretches her fingers through his and clasps them back over his knuckles. “These names… they’re not the names we were born with. But it’s who we are, now. It’s the people we’ve grown to be, together.” She shrugs, turns their fists over. “It just makes more sense to me to use them.”

Jaime thinks it makes perfect sense. He brings her hand to his lips.

Brienne’s decision to head to the coast turns out well, Jaime yields. They’re lucky, and the weather is beautiful this weekend. The beach they’ve stopped at is a quiet one, and the water is gorgeous, sparkling, liquid sapphire. When they get out of the car, all five of them can’t help but just stand there for a while, mesmerised by the rhythm of the waves. The twins, on their part, are excited for this new experience of sun and sand and sea. But Pod grew up near the ocean, too—he told Jaime once, when Brienne was trying to get them to bond, or some such. When Jaime looks over at Pod, sees him staring wistfully out at the water, he thinks the boy might be tearing up a little.

Unsurprisingly, Jaime finds that he still hates sand. Tommen takes after him, too, and he feels quite proud of his sensible son. He doesn’t know if it’s some kind of hereditary sand discomfort, but Tommen has clearly decided, like any sane person should, that the beach towel is his favourite part of the beach. The two of them huddle together on that rectangle of safety. Jaime is glad he had the presence of mind to leave his prosthetic back in the car, rather than get any grains trapped where he absolutely doesn’t want them. Tommen holds onto his father's stump as he looks out to the ocean, as if to say, _you made a good choice, Daddy._

Nevertheless, enduring sand is a sacrifice that Jaime is willing to make for Brienne, because of how much she _doesn’t_ hate it. Though she had mentioned growing up on beaches, Jaime had been prepared for her to feel uncomfortable in this space, where she would have to expose more of her body than usual. But she’s statuesque on the shore, in the sun, in her one-piece swimsuit, and soon enough she’s wading and diving into the water, and it all looks so _natural_. She’s more comfortable in her own skin than he’s ever seen before. It’s—it’s wonderful. He follows her, hypnotised, dives into the water after her, slips his arms around her body. Everything is weightless. As he kisses her, tastes the salt on their lips and tongues, Jaime realises he never told her that he doesn’t much like seawater too—but it doesn’t matter now.

The next afternoon, on the drive over to the sept, they pass a meadow blooming with wildflowers. “P-pull over!” Pod exclaims from the backseat, and jumps out of the car to pick out a makeshift bouquet for Brienne. It’s a bit of a mess, and he has to shake out a bunch of weeds and dirt before bringing it back into the car, but it’s a sweet gesture. Myrcella, whose hair is in two braids secured with ribbons today, pulls one ribbon loose without hesitation. She gleefully offers it to Pod to tie all the flowers together. They’ll have to fix her hair later, but Jaime has to laugh at the sight of her, half her blonde locks still in a neat braid, the other flowing loose and wild.

They arrive at the sept a little early, despite stopping for the flowers. Jaime steps out of the car, the Lannister and Tarth cloaks in his arms—they did pick them up from a store in the end—and assesses this modest building. There’s barely anyone around, and he can’t imagine why the septon couldn’t have accommodated them even if they hadn’t made an appointment. But it’s pleasant enough, and when they enter the sept, he sees that its statues are elegant, if simple. He’s definitely seen a couple of septs that have veered towards the comical in their representations of the Seven, and he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself from chuckling through the ceremony.

“I know it’s not perfect. With the Seven, and everything,” Jaime whispers to Brienne, as they wait for the septon. Pod is bringing the twins— _oh, they never fixed Myrcella’s hair_ —to each of the seven altars, telling them about the seven faces. He wasn’t brought up in the Faith, either, but the boy is a walking, talking encyclopaedia. Jaime thinks his stuttering might be improving a little, now that he has a regular audience for his stories in the form of the twins.

“You know,” Brienne says, hugging her bouquet, “I actually quite like the Seven, as an idea.”

“You do?” He thought she might find it all a bit frivolous, given the tenets of the Cause.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t ever follow the Faith, but just… the concept of one entity having seven aspects. The idea that nothing is ever just _one thing_ , even the divine.” She smiles, a quiet thing, just to herself. “I guess that’s just my interpretation. When I was younger, I used to think—if I had to, I would be praying to the Warrior my whole life. But there’s the Mother, now.”

Jaime smiles at that, too. He used to think the same thing, about the Warrior, and now he has the Father. But he looks toward the statue of the Smith, nods towards it and says, “I like to think of you as him.”

Brienne turns to him, confused. “The Smith? Why?”

“He mends things that are broken, doesn’t he?”

Jaime doesn’t elaborate beyond that. He recalls two hands anchoring each other on the edge of a bathtub, strangers to each other at the time, and all the confessions that have been exchanged ever since.

The septon comes out to introduce himself to them, and as he looks them over, Jaime doesn’t miss his mildly disapproving expression at their attire. _That’s what you’re wearing?_ Jaime can practically hear him say. They’re dressed in—well, they’re dressed in their everyday clothes. T-shirts, jeans, a light jacket each. They both agreed that they didn’t want to do this in anything other than whatever they’re most comfortable in.

What the septon can’t see is that Brienne’s white t-shirt is his, and Jaime’s grey one is hers.

At least the man is wise enough not to make any comments out loud. “Cloaks,” he states. _Oh, right._ Jaime scrambles to get Brienne’s blue cloak around her shoulders, with her help, and unfolds his red one.

“Is anyone escorting the bride to the altar?” the septon asks.

Jaime looks towards Myrcella, and Tommen, and Pod, who have made their way to the Crone. “Our children,” he says, and the septon struggles to hold in a sigh at yet another non-traditional choice. Jaime is quite enjoying winding the man up with all of this. Brienne bites back a smile of her own.

“Come, then,” and Jaime follows the septon to the altar, while Brienne calls the children over to her.

It’s only when Brienne and Pod and the twins arrive at the altar that they realise they never figured out how to get her maiden’s cloak _off_. Brienne is so much taller than Pod, and though Jaime thinks he can probably reach her shoulders still, the boy resorts to lifting Tommen up so he can do it instead. Tommen gets it off her fine, but he also just lets it… fall to the floor in a heap. Everyone is giggling, even while Jaime puts the Lannister cloak around Brienne’s shoulders. Everyone except the septon, that is. It’s the kind of warm familial disaster that Jaime never experienced in his childhood.

“We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.” The septon’s voice has gravitas, Jaime admits, though he always thought the part about the cursing was a bit harsh. “Look upon each other and say the words.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” they both recite, still giggling a little, and having to look around the sept to make sure they get all the Seven, and in the right order.

“I am hers…”

“… and he is mine…”

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

 _Don’t cry_ , Brienne mouths at him. _I won’t if you don’t_ , he mouths back. The septon clears his throat.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my husband.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my wife.”

Then Jaime kisses her, and kisses her, and it’s as if it’s for the very first time. It’s as if they hadn’t pledged their love already, a million times over. But they did, even back when they didn’t know it, didn’t think of it as anything more than trust between partners. He gave himself to her when he told her she would be the only mother the kids would ever know, when he pulled out her tooth in their basement, when he confessed everything about Aerys Targaryen. She gave herself to him with each second she spent with Myrcella and Tommen, each night she agreed to spar with him, each seemingly inconsequential detail she would reveal about her life before.

These vows, they’re just words that people say. Brienne had asked him if he thought things would have been different for them, if they had said it at the start. When Jaime pulls back from her lips, and looks into her eyes—she _is_ crying, now, and laughing, too—he knows they made the right choice, at the right time. If they had said these vows any earlier, it _would_ have changed things. Jaime finds he doesn’t care for that, even if it might have meant something better, because it would also have meant that this moment, with Brienne—with all five of them together—wouldn’t exist. That doesn’t seem better to him at all.

This, _now_ —

this is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took both weddings in different directions, but they do both happen in The Americans. I picked up a few elements from those scenes, particularly dialogue from [Clark and Martha’s wedding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4JrJMISFaY) in 1x12 (titled ‘The Oath’, and it’s where I got the line about oaths from, I shit you not). Here’s Elizabeth and Philip’s really moving [Russian Orthodox wedding-in-a-dark-warehouse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQwWZsYEWAU) all the way in 5x10. I was going to go this route for Jaime and Brienne’s wedding, but I thought it’d be nice for them to have the kids present. And after the high intensity of the last two chapters, I wanted both weddings to feel more… peaceful and gentle, I guess.
> 
> P.S. That whole thing about husbands and wives looking alike is actually a thing in Chinese culture (and maybe in other cultures too, but that’s where I lifted it from).
> 
> Thanks to [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/pseuds/jencat) for beta-ing this chapter :)
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	16. Propositions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I should never have promised one chapter a week because I cursed myself and took longer with this one. This chapter might read a bit different from the last few, because it was originally just half of what I had planned, but it grew into its own thing. If you’re not familiar with the concept of demisexuality, it might be worth a quick Google before you read this chapter. Jaime and Brienne have a conversation about it without really knowing what it is or using the terminology, so it might be confusing to anyone unfamiliar with it.

Jaime Lannister is doing two things this evening.

One: he is making himself some tea before bed.

Two: he is feeling jealous of Pod. Only a little, but he feels it all the same.

Brienne has decided to have Pod run the mission with her after all, as part of his training, following some adjustments to the original plan to accommodate his inexperience. She is still Ms Payne, and he is still her foster child, going by Cedric instead. But Pod now has significantly less contact with the mark—or rather, the mark’s daughter—than initially planned. Still, it’s been enough to create an in for Brienne with this Hyle Hunt. Hyle Hunt, who defected from their home country and dragged his teenage daughter along with him, who was hired by the Ministry of Agriculture in _this_ country for reasons Brienne is still trying to uncover, who must have thought it was nice that this other single parent and her foster son might want to befriend them both.

Now Pod gets to go off with Brienne to the _bowling alley_ , of all places, so they can _socialise_.

Jaime knows he is feeling a little bit jealous, but he isn’t quite sure what exactly he’s feeling jealous _of_. Part of it is the extra time Pod gets to spend with Brienne, especially now that Jaime’s had to double the amount of time he spends with Pia. The boy is even sparring with them now, some evenings, so Jaime doesn’t get Brienne all to himself then, either.

But part of it is also how _compassionate_ Brienne has been with Pod’s training overall, tough as she is on the boy in hand-to-hand combat. Jaime thinks of how the General had raised him, how he taught him—or rather, hired others to teach him—to fight, deceive, manipulate, eliminate. Pod has no clue how good he has it, with this mission. With Brienne.

She’s sent the boy to attend an after-school class with Hunt’s daughter—language class, no less, Pod’s forte—where he conveniently found a seat right beside the miserable immigrant girl struggling to assimilate to this new country. As he did in the next class, and the next. One day, Cedric introduced his foster mother to his friend’s father after class, and that was that.

Pod’s cover boiled down to, essentially, _being himself_ , albeit under a different name—and he doesn’t even have to keep _that_ up for much more than a few hours a week. It’s certainly much easier to handle than being in the same high school as the girl like they had first planned, where he’d have had to spend far more time with Hunt’s daughter without Brienne’s supervision. Jaime has to applaud Brienne for crafting the most foolproof cover possible for a fourteen-year-old spy.

He’s standing in the kitchen, sipping the last of his tea, when Pod bursts through the door of their home with Brienne following close behind him. Or, perhaps he should say Cedric and Jeyne. Jaime smiles into his mug as he recalls Brienne reluctantly revealing that the alias prepared for her by the Centre was _Jeyne_ Payne, to her own consternation and his delight. _Whoever came up with this is mocking me, surely_ , she had groused to him in bed one morning. _I think it’s fitting. It makes you sound like a superhero,_ was Jaime’s reply, which earned him an elbow in the ribs.

“Hey,” Jaime lifts his stump in greeting, his prosthetic already shut up in the drawer of his bedside table. He’s suddenly conscious that he had been in the kitchen when they left, too, and now it seems like he’s been standing there in the same spot waiting for them for the past few hours. “How was bowling?”

“Fun!” Pod responds with glee. He really must be the first spy in existence to derive any true joy from their training. Brienne just gives Jaime a tired smile as she shrugs off her coat.

There’s something odd about her. She’s not worried, but she’s _something_. Odd. Odder than the fact that her hair and outfit is all Brienne, while her heavy makeup is all Jeyne-the-career-woman.

“Want some tea?” Jaime offers them both. Pod shakes his head and says good night, bounding up the stairs to his bedroom. “No thanks,” Brienne declines, “I just want to clean all this off.” She spreads her fingers in the air in front of her face. Considering the only makeup skills she had prior to this mission was the bare minimum she needed to conceal any injuries, she’d gotten decent enough at pulling off this one look, though it had required a lot of drilling from Jaime. He had learned how to do some very elaborate makeup for a mission in—

Well, that’s ancient history. Another life among many.

Brienne is halfway up the stairs before Jaime remembers walking into the bathroom a couple of weeks ago to see her aggressively scrubbing her face off with a wet towel. He didn’t know why he’d assumed she knew how to _remove_ the makeup properly, rather than just resorting to _brute force_ like the pig-headed woman that she still is sometimes. A lot of the time. He rinses his mug as quickly as he can and runs up to their bedroom to stop her from ruining her own skin, never mind that she’s probably been treating her complexion terribly her entire life and it still manages to _glow_.

(Brienne would never accept that compliment gracefully—she’s too used to seeing only her freckles when she looks at her face in the mirror, and her twice-broken nose, even if she’s yielded once or twice that she likes her eyes. Nonetheless, Jaime still meditates on her skin-that-glows, on those mornings he wakes earlier than she does, and gets to look upon his sleeping wife for an extended time without her buckling under his reverent gaze.)

When Jaime arrives at their bathroom door, he flings it open with a “Please tell me you’re using the cream I got you,” only to see Brienne standing at her sink with the jar of cream on the counter beside her. But Jaime can’t be relieved about that right now, because she’s wearing her jeans and—and nothing else.

“Now I feel overdressed,” Jaime smirks, as he closes the door behind him. Before Brienne can even open her mouth, he takes his own t-shirt off, fully aware of how low his sweatpants are sitting on his hips. She looks up to the ceiling—Jaime doesn’t miss how she glanced first at the general region of his waistband—as if to ask the Seven for the thousandth time, _why did I marry this man?_ But she’s not blushing, damn it, and a small part of Jaime wishes she hadn’t built so much of an immunity to him over the years.

“The last time I used the cream, I dropped some on my shirt,” Brienne says, very sensibly, once she recovers from her exasperation. Jaime knows she is resolutely trying to make this whole situation as unsexy as possible (and failing). “Thought the best way to avoid that was just to… not have a shirt on.” _Or a bra._

“I love the way your mind works, wife.”

“Yes, that must be why you married me, _husband_.” She’s started calling him _husband_ now, since they said their vows, but only when she can drown the word in sarcasm. Jaime will take it.

“Hmm.” He lets his eyes wander appreciatively over her body in response. “Among other things.”

 _Ha, she_ does _look a little pink now._

Jaime reaches over to grab a handful of cotton wool from beside the sink ( _his_ sink). “You don’t have to—” Brienne starts to say, before she’s silenced by a look from Jaime. “You’re far too concerned about this,” she sighs, as she holds the jar of cream steady on the counter so he can unscrew the cover with his left hand.

“Look, _wife_. I spent years using _this_ —” he moves his stump around the circumference of his face— “even before I lost _this_ —” then pushes his stump into her breastbone— “so you best believe I know a little something or two about taking care of my face. Which you should be doing now, for this mission. Taking care of yours, I mean.”

For some reason, Brienne has no retort. Not even a self-deprecating remark. There it is again. She’s being _odd_.

“Is something wrong?” Jaime asks, as he starts to massage the cream into her face. “How’s everything going with this Hyle Hunt?”

Brienne says nothing for a long moment. Then, she mumbles, “I think I might need your help.”

Jaime’s fingers pause on her cheek. “Something _is_ wrong.”

“Not… exactly.” She takes a breath. “I think… Hyle likes me.”

“Well, that’s good, right? It’s about time he started trusting you.” He starts moving his fingers again.

“I mean…” Brienne bites her lip, a little too deep, forgetting for a second that she still has lipstick on. A tiny bit of it is on her teeth now. “I think he’s— _interested_ in me.”

“ _Oh._ I see.” Jaime motions at his own teeth with his stump to tell her about the stain on hers.

“Yeah.” She breaks from his left hand so she can look in the mirror, and cleans the lipstick off her teeth with her finger. “He—asked me to dinner,” she says, at her reflection, “without the kids.”

“Oh.” He tilts her face back towards him with two fingers and starts on her forehead. “Did you… plan this?”

“No!” She seems almost offended by the suggestion. “I was—I thought it was all platonic. I don’t think I did anything except be nice to the man.” Jaime can feel her skin heating beneath his fingers. “It’s never happened before. Not on the job, or—” _So this Hyle Hunt is making her blush—_ “Besides… you know,” _Ronnet, who lied,_ “The only person it’s happened with is _you_. Having someone—interested in me.”

She’s blushing to no end now. Oh, so the one making her blush is _still_ Jaime. He feels a little bit triumphant, though he’s also wondering how this woman, who _didn’t_ blush when he burst in on her standing at the sink without shirt _or_ bra, could be so abashed about being desired by her own husband, even now.

“So someone else finally caught onto all that _raw sexual energy_ you exude, wife,” he quips, and Brienne’s blush disappears into something between a laugh and a gag.

“More like he found a warm body and thinks it might be willing too, if he puts a little effort in,” she sneers, and puts a finger to his lips before he can even formulate his response to her comment. “And I’m _not_ just saying that because of—how I look. That’s my genuine assessment of the situation.”

 _How she looks._ She still talks about her body as if it’s all objective fact. Later, when recalling this conversation, Jaime will consider that perhaps it’s how she _thinks_ she looks. How she had learned to look at herself to steel herself against the words of cruel strangers, who might call her all manner of names, point out all manner of flaws. Cruel strangers have done so. Those names and flaws have truth in them; Jaime will not patronise her by saying otherwise. Brienne feels much less shame about her body now than when he first met her—he will remember her standing right there at the sink, in only her jeans and nothing else, making no effort to cover herself—but maybe she still looks at herself with the eyes of a cruel stranger. Feels much less hurt at the names and the flaws, now; believes in their unassailable truth all the same. Even while she believes in, and blushes at, Jaime’s desire for her.

But all these thoughts are for later. Now, Jaime just says, “Alright then, wife, I’ll take your word for it. How do you think I can help?”

“I—I don’t want to force it down that road.” Brienne closes her eyes so Jaime can spread the cream on them. “But if it’s the encouragement he needs… I want to be prepared for the eventuality.”

 _Oh._ Jaime is very focused now on massaging the mascara and eyeliner from her lids.

“You know I didn’t… train for this,” she reminds him.

“I beg to differ,” Jaime replies, hoping his tone is still light. “We’ve done quite a lot of _training_.”

“Be serious, Jaime!” If her eyes were open, she would be brandishing their blue like a weapon. “You know what I mean. I don’t know how to… make it real, like you say you do.”

No, her eyes are not open. He’s smearing the cream, blackened by this point, around her sockets.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Jaime says, gentler now. He wipes his fingers on a piece of cotton and picks out more cream from the jar. “Lips.” As he moves his fingers over her closed mouth, thinning out the rouge there, he feels a little like he’s silencing her. But he needs these few moments to gather his thoughts. He knows Brienne is watching him closely, though he is avoiding her eyes and staring at her lips very intently. Her lips, which he gets to kiss, and savour, with his own. Lips which, up till now, he had monopolised. She didn’t ask him if he’d be okay with this—this _preparing for the eventuality_ , with Hyle Hunt. He’s supposed to be okay with it, just as she’s supposed to be okay with Pia. There are strategies to deal with such situations, he thinks, as he picks up more cotton and begins wiping the residue from her mouth. He doesn’t think about what “such situations” entails, exactly.

“Well,” Jaime pronounces, all composed, when her lips are finally clean. “First off. Do you find him attractive?” He takes another piece of cotton. “That can help.”

“I… I don’t know,” Brienne says, uncomfortably.

Jaime furrows his brow as he cleans hers. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t know! That’s my honest answer. I guess he’s… fine? Average? Normal enough?”

“That’s a flattering review of the man, Brienne.” That little bit of triumph is creeping back into him, doing its level best to push away his other thoughts.

“I just mean—I don’t think it really… works like that with me.” She closes her eyes once more as Jaime reaches her lids. “I don’t really find people—attractive.”

_What?_

“What does _that_ mean?”

“I just… don’t.” Brienne looks as if she regrets revealing some deep, dark secret, but it’s a secret he doesn’t even _understand_.

“You find _me_ attractive,” Jaime asserts. Doesn’t she? She has to. He can’t believe he’s even questioning this.

“But you’re my husband,” is her reply. Her nonsensical reply.

“That’s irrelevant,” he counters.

“No, it isn’t,” she shoots back. “Not to me.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m handsome independent of our marital status, Brienne,” Jaime preens, as he wipes the last of the cream off her eyelids. Who needs humility, anyway?

She opens her eyes and at least has some decency to look embarrassed as she replies:

“I suppose?”

_… What?_

“You _suppose_?” He throws the cotton at her, and it bounces off her nose and into the sink. “I want a divorce.”

She picks the cotton out of the sink and throws it right back at him. “Jaime!”

“You’ve called me beautiful before! More than a few times.” He knows he’s getting far too emotional about this, but, Gods, the cheek of his wife. “Are you taking it all back?”

“No!” Brienne groans in frustration. “You’re not listening to me!”

“Well, you’re not making any sense! You find me beautiful—you called me beautiful even before we…” Jaime waves his hand to substitute for whatever the hell happened between them, before they fell in love, whatever, something. “But you don’t find me attractive outside of me being your _husband_?”

“Will you just give me a second to—” She grabs some clean cotton to get rid of the rest of the cream on her face herself. Jaime folds his arms and just stares at her every wipe. He doesn’t care now that she’s using far too much strength. He wants an explanation for this.

Brienne flings the cotton in the sink once she’s done, a bit too forcefully. She flexes her wrists on the edge of the counter. “I know… it’s not really how it works for other people,” she begins, slowly. “I don’t know why I’m this way. I don’t know if I was always like this, inside me, or if it’s because of things that happened to me. I know you’re beautiful, Jaime.” She’s saying this into the sink, which is not assuring in the least. “I knew it from the first moment I set eyes on you in your father’s office. But it’s just—knowing. Recognising. It didn’t make me feel anything. Except—except maybe… discomfort.”

“ _Discomfort?_ ” Jaime doesn’t like the idea that his beauty unsettles Brienne. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re beautiful in all the ways I’m not.”

“ _Brienne_ ,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry.” She’s apologising because _he_ doesn’t like it when she says things like that, Jaime knows, but she’s ploughing past that, as she always does. “But I don’t think it was _just_ that. It’s also the kind of discomfort where—you think you should feel something more, but you don’t.” She runs her thumb on the edge of the sink. “I could see your beauty. Maybe I was even overwhelmed by its—its _glow_. But something in me still felt… hollow.”

“Oh.” Jaime doesn’t know how else to respond to this. His wife had just told him that the way he looks makes her feel—empty.

Brienne reaches over to wrap his stump in a firm but gentle grip, and brings it to rest on the counter. “I don’t mean that I feel this way now. I just think… this hollowness. It had to fill out, with, with other things. Before I could start feeling that desire for you.” Her thumb is making circles on his skin now. “That’s why I said, it’s not _irrelevant_ to me that you’re my husband. There are all these other things, in our partnership. In a marriage.”

Jaime thinks of what she had asked him after he was first inside her—if he would have wanted to have more children with her. He thinks of how she had told him she wouldn’t want to have children of her own, unless they were his, too. He thinks of how naturally, how _quickly_ she had made that leap—from verbalising her love, barely a couple of hours before, to _that_. As if it wasn’t a leap at all.

He comes to the realisation that Brienne’s love for him always had a logic he could never fully grasp.

“When?” Jaime asks.

“ _When?_ ” she repeats, puzzled.

“When did you start… feeling?”

Her thumb pauses on his stump as she contemplates his question. “... Oh,” she says to herself, as if she’s surprised by the answer she’s come up with.

“Oh?”

“I’ve never thought about it as having a beginning. I was—I always thought I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun, if that makes sense.” Jaime supposes it does make sense. It was that way for him too, with her. “But if I had to pick a starting point… maybe it was—after you told me about Targaryen.”

Jaime feels a chill run down his back. He doesn’t like to think about that night, and all the things that led up to that point.

“Because you got to see me naked for the very first time?” he tries to joke.

Brienne throws another piece of cotton at him. “ _Of course not._ I just mean—something deepened that night. Some trust between us. Things… seemed to flow easier after that.”

They did. He likes to think about that part, the things that came after.

“Did you want me for that long, then? Since that night?” He feels guilty now, remembering his appointments with Cersei, though they had grown more infrequent in the months after. That frequency wasn’t his choice, at the time, but maybe—maybe he swallowed it more easily because he had Brienne, by then. He had her in a way that he didn’t, before that night.

“I don’t think so. It was more like—an opening. A murmur I tried to ignore.” She smiles shyly, and he notices that she’s blushing again. It’s one of her good blushes; its warmth has a tenderness to it. “Maybe I only felt it all when you first kissed me. That’s an act of trust too, in a way, isn’t it? Sharing our bodies, even just in parts.”

Jaime had never thought of it that way. He just wanted to kiss her, and she had given him the opportunity. “You never really responded to me,” he chides, fondly, “the first few times.”

“I didn’t really know what to do. All of a sudden, I was feeling—so much. As if… I wasn’t allowed to for the longest time, and then you had given me permission.” She’s let go of his stump by now, and runs her fingers through her own hair. “That’s a terrible way of putting it,” she laughs, “but it did feel like that to me.”

“Funny that you think so.” He can feel himself smiling now, too. “You were the one who gave _me_ permission to kiss _you_ , as I recall.”

“I mean, a permission of a different kind. Not just to _do_. Not just the act, but the—the wanting-to-do-it. Maybe it makes more sense to say I became aware of it, when you kissed me. That I wanted to do it to you too.”

“Hmm. You only kissed me after—Goodwin,” he muses, trying to join all the dots.

“I did,” she says, simply.

After Targaryen. After Renly. After Goodwin. After Cersei. After Ronnet. Jaime had always thought she was just reserved, or apprehensive, or embarrassed, or protective of her own body. But he sees it better now, he thinks. Her desire for him—it had to accumulate. It had to be built, and nurtured, with all these things that he might never have thought to associate with desire. Love, yes, but not desire itself, the physicality of it. According to Brienne, she can’t even separate the two. But that means—

“If you can’t feel—or you can’t _act_ like you feel any desire for Hyle Hunt—how…?”

Brienne sighs, and leans her bare back against the wall. “I don’t know. But I have to try… something. I’m not sure I’ll go through with it, but I have to at least… try.” She turns her head to him. “If you—if we tried doing it… as other people…”

“You told me you didn’t want that,” Jaime cuts her off. “You told me you didn’t want that version of me.”

“ _I know what I said_ , Jaime. But… it’s the only way I can think of that would be—comfortable enough for me.” She sticks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans, and he follows her line of sight to where she’s flexing her toes on the floor. “I know it’s not meant to be comfortable. But I’d appreciate being able to… remain in control of the situation. And I don’t want to, to feel as if I didn’t try my best, with Hyle. If I can’t get him to tell me what we need to know, without this step.”

 _This step._ It had always been a _step_ , for Jaime. Not for Brienne. He wants to tell her not to make it into that, not to go against her nature. _You’re never anything other than yourself, Brienne_ , was what he had said to her, years ago now. But she’s already—not grown, or improved, he doesn’t want to call it that. She’s… changed, on the job. She’s figured out ways of being something—someone—other than herself. He saw it in her when they had dinner with Pia. Who knows who else she’s had to be, for the missions she runs on her own.

It’s what they do for the Cause. Go against their nature.

“At least—” Brienne fills the silence, “At least it’ll be you, underneath it all. I’ll know it’s you. That’s something.”

Jaime walks over to her. She lifts ever so slightly from the wall, as if drawn to him, and he slides his arms around her, lets their torsos align. He feels the cool tile of the bathroom wall on the back of his left hand, her warm skin on his palm.

“Okay,” he agrees, softly, into her ear. “But not here. Not in our bed.”

“No,” she echoes, “not in our bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demisexuality isn't explored in The Americans, but I thought it'd be an interesting dimension to JB's marriage, in addition to complicating their relationship with their work.
> 
> I can’t find the bowling scene on Youtube, but Elizabeth, Philip, and Tuan socialised with the Hyle Hunt-equivalent (a couple with a son) a number of times. Here’s [a scene of them having dinner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2tkKwgGYAs) in 5x02. And, there was one time Elizabeth [pushed Philip to role-play as Clark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFiYpIyFaVo) ‘for fun’ in 2x06, but that… did not end well. I won’t be following that storyline.
> 
> Also, I casually appropriated a quote from Pride & Prejudice. Thanks Jane Austen.
> 
> Thanks to [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign) aka [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde) for being my beta and all-around hand-holder once again for this chapter.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	17. Impersonations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I’m sorry for the delay. I’ve been trying to balance this with my [October ficlet series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848634) and some other real life stuff. Also this chapter is just… a lot. It’s roleplay, but also isn’t? Just roll with it, the way you’ve probably rolled with a ton of things in this fic. I don't think there's anything particularly worth tagging, but if you'd like me to, let me know.
> 
> I’m committed to finishing this story by around the end of November, by the way, even if it kills me in the process, but might take a break before updating at breakneck speed next month.

Brienne stands before the hotel room door, and takes another deep breath—her third, already, since she got there. She smoothes Jeyne’s dress down with her left hand, and grips the keycard in her right, so tightly she can feel its hard edges dig into the flesh of her fingers.

She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous about this. It’s for the Cause. She’s given so much to the Cause already. And it’s _Jaime_ behind this door, no matter what. She’s seen him in disguise more times than she can count; run missions with him in disguise too. And he can say the same about her.

But she just can’t seem to push the keycard into the slot. She feels the weight of it in her palm; looks down to see it held between Jeyne’s freshly painted fingernails. She feels the thickness of Jeyne’s makeup on her skin. The tightness of Jeyne’s wig around her skull.

Suddenly, the door swings open.

And then Brienne can’t help but _laugh_.

Jaime pulls her into the room with a shush and shuts the door. At least, she _thinks_ it’s her husband who has just pulled her into the room. “Rule number one, Jeyne. Under no circumstances should you _laugh at your mark_ ,” he scolds. That voice definitely _sounds_ like him, but—

“What kind of a disguise is _that_ , Jaime?”

“ _Hyle_ ,” he corrects her.

“Hyle,” she repeats, trying her hardest not to snigger. “Are you—are you wearing a prosthetic _nose_?”

Jaime actually looks a bit hurt, the poor man. “I just I thought I’d modify some things,” he says, with what might be a slight pout. “Make me look less like myself.”

“Didn’t I show you Hyle’s photo?” Brienne reaches out a finger to poke at his nose. “You thought this made you look _more_ like him?”

She doesn’t mean to be so critical. The brown hair is all well and good, and the fake scar by his ear is a nice, subtle nod to Hyle’s own. And she’s not opposed to the formality of the tailored white shirt, black dress pants, and chic leather Oxfords. It’s so different from the casual clothes he wears most often when he’s just Jaime, but she’s definitely _not_ opposed. In fact, it looks much better on him than it does on Hyle.

But the _nose._ She knows Jaime sometimes likes to indulge his more dramatic tendencies with his disguises, but this—it just—it has so much _presence_. Too much.

“I had to improvise, okay?” Jaime shrinks back and shields the thing with his fingers. “You didn’t exactly give me a lot of time to work out a new disguise.”

“I’m sorry, but it looks ridiculous, Jai—Hyle.” She’s stumbling over the name, tonight, though she’s called Jaime by so many other names before. “Will you take it off? Please?”

“Do I have to?” Jaime groans. “This took me _ages_ to blend into my skin.”

“Please, _Jaime_.” She gives him a pointed look as she says his name. “Or I’ll end up laughing to myself thinking about it when I’m with him.”

“Alright, fine,” Jaime sighs, and walks into the bathroom, with Brienne following close behind. She watches him in the bathroom mirror as he peels the thing off, sets it beside the sink. She watches him remove all the residue on and around his nose, as if she is just watching him in their own bathroom mirror back home, when he shaves or brushes his teeth.

Jaime meets her eyes in their reflection. “I hope you appreciate that I’ve had to sleep with a handful of people over the years who looked more ridiculous than I just did. And their ridiculous parts were not removable, for the most part, even if I had the privilege of asking.”

Brienne laughs, sincerely. Espionage humour, she supposes. No one else would understand but them, and there is an incongruous intimacy about it all. She tries not to think about all the parts of her body she still intermittently wishes she could remove, or even replace. She tries not to think about the removable parts too, now that she’s Jeyne.

When he’s done fixing his face, Jaime turns to her. “Happy now?”

Brienne just nods in response, biting her lip to keep from laughing again.

“Before we step back out there,” Jaime says, as he washes his hands. “Shall we go over our ground rules?”

“About the names, you mean? You call me Jeyne, and I call you Hyle, like we agreed. Unless—something goes wrong.”

“Nothing is going to _go_ wrong, I promise you.” He wipes his hands on a towel. “But there may be things that _feel_ wrong. It’s probably best we deal with them in the moment.”

Brienne prods absently at the prosthetic nose on the counter. “Is that… how you were trained? How the Centre does it?”

“No,” Jaime says, shortly. He looks like he wants to elaborate, but seems to think better of it. “It’s what I think will work best for us,” he pronounces instead.

Brienne files Jaime’s deflection in the part of her brain where she keeps all of the secrets he has never fully articulated. She gestures towards his prosthetic. “On or off?”

“On,” Jaime shrugs. “I keep it on when I’m on the job. Off only when I’m with you. With Brienne, I mean, not—Jeyne.”

“Even with…” Brienne starts to ask, but decides against it. Peck can’t possibly have his prosthetic on all of the time, with his own wife.

Jaime, too, seems to file her half-question away in his own brain. “Anything else?”

She shakes her head. “I suppose—I suppose we might have to work it out as things… unfold,” she says, tentatively.

“Yes. I suppose.” Jaime lifts his hand to her wig, rearranges some of its wisps. “Look—Brienne—I’ve been doing this a long time. But I’ve never really had to train anyone before. To share my… experience. Not this way. So this is a first for me too.”

“Oh.” It occurs to Brienne that she had never really asked for his consent, not directly. “Are you—are you okay to do this?”

Jaime just looks at her, like he didn’t realise till now that he ever had a choice. “I think this is our best option, given the circumstances.”

That doesn’t answer the question, but Brienne knows better than to ask again. She just puts her hand on his cheek, gives him a resigned smile. Jaime puts his hand over hers, and returns her smile with one of his own.

Then, he takes her hand, and holds it between them. He rearranges his features into something bordering on confidence. “Alright then, Jeyne. Let’s get started.”

Brienne lets Jaime lead her to the foot of the bed, and they stand facing each other. They had agreed to keep it loose—Brienne might panic, or freeze, if she makes any mistakes while playing her role, which would get them nowhere. And Jaime has never met Hyle, anyway, so he wouldn’t be able to approximate his mannerisms. Better to walk through it rather than insist on remaining in character.

“I know you’re going to overthink everything,” Jaime begins, “and what I’m about to say is going to make it much worse, but try to keep your cool, okay?”

“Gods, don’t start off with _that_. Now I’m definitely going to overthink everything.” On instinct, she pushes her fingers into his chest, playfully, like she’s done a million times before.

Jaime grabs her fingers and holds them firmly away from him. “None of this, unless you think it’s how Jeyne would flirt with Hyle.”

Brienne tries to swallow the slight sting she feels at his dismissal.

“What I mean is,” and Jaime twirls his fingers around hers, all sensuous intent, “every little movement matters. Every little movement makes the story more believable. But don’t think about it as a series of movements, because you’re bound to get caught up in the details.” She realises his prosthetic has found its way to her waist, is stroking its way up her ribs. “All you need to do, is inhabit your cover. Inhabit Jeyne. You’ve constructed her, you’ve already _been_ her—all you’re doing is following that line of logic. The circumstances are different, but she’s still the same woman.”

Jaime has never touched her like this with his right hand before—with his stump, yes, but not with his prosthetic—and it’s throwing her off balance. The way he’s touching her with it, even over her dress, it’s—it’s almost _flesh-like_. He’s figured out a way to use it as a _tool_. A—a _toy_ , she thinks.

Brienne is blushing already, at these revelations, before she can even stop herself. “This is fine,” Jaime says, lifting his left hand to brush her cheek. “You just need to learn how to use it to your advantage. Hyle has an ego, yes?”

“Yes,” Brienne replies, deepening— _honeying_ her voice the way she does when she’s Jeyne, and she sees the corners of Jaime’s lips turn up slightly upon hearing just that one syllable.

“You’re strong, Jeyne. Capable. You’ve built a career for yourself. You’re raising a son on your own. But maybe Hyle—maybe _I_ can make you blush, a strong woman like you.” Jaime drags his finger softly down her cheek, and it feels startlingly foreign. “Maybe I’ll like that.”

Brienne suspects Hyle probably _would_ like it—it’d make him feel some misplaced sense of pride—but she also thinks he will need to be reminded of Jeyne’s boldness, for it all to work. So she reaches her hands straight up to Jaime’s collar and—he stops her with his left hand once again.

“Jeyne,” he murmurs, “you’d go straight for what you want, wouldn’t you?” He guides her hands down to his belt. “But don’t be too anxious. You’re determined, but you’re not in a hurry. Leave me to deal with my buttons. You have better things to do with your hands.”

She doesn’t think Jaime really means to suggest anything beyond how she should deal with Hyle’s belt. But as she makes quick work of the buckle, and strap, and zip, and as Jaime is preoccupied with his buttons, she thinks, _maybe Jeyne would go ahead and—_

So she reaches into his briefs and grabs a hold of his cock.

Jaime sucks in a breath. It’s not that she’s never pulled this particular move on him before; she’s found that she can be assertive, when she’s in the mood, especially after they spar. But Brienne’s assertiveness isn’t quite the same as Jeyne’s determination. She strokes his cock, slowly, patiently, makes no move to remove his pants or briefs, or to rush him through his shirt buttons.

“You sure you haven’t done this before?” Jaime teases, as he gets to the last button. Brienne just smiles at him in response, in a way she hopes looks mysterious. She pushes his shirt off his shoulders with her free hand, tries to find some unfamiliarity in the ridges of his chest.

“How would Hyle undress Jeyne?” he says, once his shirt is on the floor. “Or, you could even ask, how would Jeyne _want_ him to undress her?”

Oh. When it’s about what pleasure Jeyne could give to Hyle—frankly, that’s easy. A body is a body is a body, surely. But now Jaime is asking her to think of what pleasure Jeyne can _receive_ from Hyle. And her mind is a blank.

“You’re tensing up.” Jaime notices. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out what Jeyne might want from him. Besides… you know.” She looks down to her hand still grasping his cock.

“Hmm. It’s possible that Hyle isn’t one to really care. He might be eager, and take off your dress for you. Or you could do it yourself, show that you’re eager for him.”

“The latter, I think.” It would give her more agency. Honestly, she doesn’t much want Hyle’s fingers on her body, not in that way. Undressing her—that’s a privilege she would prefer to afford only to Jaime.

She releases Jaime, and turns around so he can unzip her dress. “Do it—differently,” she says, as if he’s the one that needs teaching, here. “Don’t be soft about it.” Not that she wears dresses often in her daily life, but Jaime is always so gentle on those rare occasions he has to unzip her.

“Huh. Bold choice,” Jaime comments, as she eases her way out of her dress. She’s skipped all of her underwear, tonight. Or rather, she removed her panties in the bathroom in the hotel lobby. She wouldn’t have had the guts to make the entire trip to the hotel without them.

“I wasn’t sure,” Brienne admits, as she turns back around. “About going without, I mean. Hyle might be a lingerie guy.”

“I can see it working.” He runs his eyes down her body, and pauses at the juncture of her thighs. She’s shaved, for once—she hopes she won’t have to do it regularly—but he doesn’t comment on it. His gaze isn’t filled with his customary hunger, nor what she expects will be Hyle’s lasciviousness, never mind that her body probably isn’t Hyle’s usual type. Jaime is looking at her with something like—a cold appraisal. “You don’t like wearing all that lace, anyway, so it’s probably best to reduce the chances of him seeing any hint of discomfort.”

Brienne remembers how they had walked into the lingerie section at the department store once, on a whim. She had bought the set she thought would be the least offensive to her, all things considered. But when she tried it on again back home, it had ended with Jaime laughing—not at how it made her look, but at how uncomfortable it made her _feel_. _It’s just not me_ , she had groaned. _I know, wife. Even though I think it’s very sexy_ —she had shuddered at that— _if it’s not you, it’s not you. Don’t force it._ She still has the set in their closet, though, if she might ever need to use it with Hyle. Or anyone else.

“Well,” she says, and gestures towards his pants. “Think you might want to catch up, Hyle?”

“Hmm. Push me on the bed first, maybe? This feels too… vulnerable. For both of us. Might want to introduce some—”

She doesn’t let him finish his sentence. He was probably going to say ‘urgency’, or ‘speed’, or something along those lines, so she _is_ following his advice, even if he didn’t get a chance to say it. He’s already hard, in any case, and by the time she’s straddling him on the bed, his pants and underwear pushed down around his ankles, she’s ready to let him enter her.

“Hold on. You can start off like this, sure. Kiss me like this. But what position would be best, later? You on top?”

Brienne considers this, as she caresses Jaime’s ribs. “You should be on top, later. He’d like feeling like he got the upper hand, in the end.”

First, however—Brienne seizes Jaime’s lips with hers. He shifts himself up, as they kiss, tongues wrestling for dominance. She’d never want dominance over Jaime, generally, nor would he want dominance over her. It has always been a kind of tender negotiation, between their bodies. But that—that’s for all the times other than this one. She moves her lips down his jaw, his neck, his chest, his stomach, until she captures his cock with her mouth.

“That’s good,” Jaime breathes. She’s not sure what his comment is referring to, exactly, but she’s not going to clarify now. Brienne is realising it’s best to focus on skill, though she’s not quite sure what part of this is skill, and what part of this is simply how familiar she is with what Jaime likes. She’s having to almost—dislocate this part of him from the rest of his body.

“Stop,” he groans, eventually. “Don’t—don’t let me finish.” She lifts her head from his cock, and waits for him to catch his breath. “You… you won’t be sure if he’ll be able to go again,” Jaime remarks, as his gasps slow, and he kicks his pants off his feet and onto the floor. “Better to avoid any embarrassing situations.”

“Good point,” Brienne replies. Before she knows it, Jaime has flipped her onto her back.

“Hyle’s not as strong as you, Jaime,” she finds herself laughing.

“Might want to help him along then.” Jaime grabs the condom packet that he left on the bedside table, and tears it open. “You’ve let me overpower you before, when we spar, so you can manage.”

“I didn’t think you noticed that.” She watches him expertly slip the condom on, and thinks about how peculiar it is that she’s never seen him do that before, as his wife.

“Oh, I knew,” he smiles. “I _let_ you keep doing it.”

She can feel their banter coming on, so she stops herself before she can respond. She can’t fall back into Brienne again.

“Are you wet?” he asks, matter-of-factly rather than seductively, as he leans over her. It’s a practical concern, she knows.

“Wet enough, now.” _For Jaime, not for Hyle._ “But I’m not sure how it’ll be, with him.”

“Do you think Hyle will be the type to care?” Jaime is reaching his fingers down to her clit, now, and circles them there. “About Jeyne’s pleasure. Or your comfort, at least.”

“Maybe not. I could _make_ him care, I suppose.” She pauses to let out a moan at his attentions. “But—he, he might not want to use his mouth,” she pants. She doesn’t expect Jaime to do that, not tonight.

“Perhaps not.” He slips a finger into her entrance. “Might want to go into it prepared, if possible. Good to let him _think_ he made you wet, all on his own.”

Brienne lets out another moan. She takes the opportunity to try exaggerating it, and immediately recoils at the sound that comes out of her mouth. “Fuck. Do I have to fake _that_?” She claps a hand over her eyes in embarrassment.

“You might have to, unfortunately,” Jaime chuckles. “I know you don’t like being particularly vocal, but he might appreciate the encouragement.”

“I don’t think I can do it in front of you,” she says, peeking at him between her fingers. She hates it, more than anything that has happened so far, that she might give something so false to Jaime.

“That’s fine for now.” He leans down again, taking his hand away from her cunt, and rests his weight on his right elbow. “Jeyne—no. _Brienne_.” He brings his face right over hers. “What you want out of this is never your pleasure. You can take it if you wish—” Brienne instinctively wants to deny this, but Jaime silences her with a look— “What you want, might not even be _his_ pleasure. What you want, is to make him _talk_. To give you the information that you want. That’s all it is. That’s all you should be focusing on.” He lowers his head to her ear. “Just getting him to orgasm isn’t enough,” he whispers. “It’s how you manipulate it, and everything around it.”

She wasn’t going to ask. She really wasn’t. But the next thing out of her mouth is: “You want to make me come, don’t you, Hyle?” And then Jaime lifts his head, and he’s just staring at her oddly. She doesn’t want to have to look at the oddness of his stare, or think about what it means, so she puts her hand around his neck, guides him down her body. Brienne truly doesn’t think Hyle would bother pleasuring her with his mouth, but—Jeyne would go straight for what she wants, wouldn’t she? And what she wants right now, before she has to imagine Hyle inside her, is Jaime’s tongue around her clit, along her seam, in her cunt. He seems to know this is what she wants, too; as he licks and sucks her to her peak, she knows it’s all Jaime. It’s no one else but him.

Before her breath can even out again, Jaime pushes himself inside her. What else is there to say, now? She tries to hold his body against her as if it isn’t Jaime, tries to imagine another man in his place, but everything is _him_. Even with the wig, and the scar, and the condom, gods, even if he had been wearing that fucking ridiculous nose—it’s Jaime’s body, Jaime’s skin, Jaime’s smell, Jaime’s cock inside her, no one else’s. She finds she can get over her stupid hang-up about being _vocal_ , but she’s only being vocal, being _encouraging_ , the way she would with Jaime, if she ever felt so inclined. She knows this deep within her, and she knows this when she’s close again, and she knows this when what comes out of her mouth is this:

“Ah, Jaime—fuck! Hyle!”

And then Jaime rolls off of her.

“Fuck. I’m almost there, _Hyle_ , don’t—don’t _stop_.”

“So am I, _Brienne_ ,” he retorts, and looks at her judgmentally. How does he have so much _control_ , right now? Is this really how he can be, with all his marks? Having all this presence of mind?

“Seven hells, I know, okay, _Jaime_? But could we at least finish before we _talk_?”

Jaime isn’t moving, _damn it_. She almost caves, almost lets him just lie there and give her another lecture, but she’s _so close_ , she can already feel it slipping away, and she’s so _mad_ at herself for saying his name, so before he can open his mouth again she’s on top of him, using her weight to pin him down to the bed.

“Please,” she asks. She will never want to take from him without asking, ever.

“ _Fine_ ,” Jaime sighs dramatically. “But only because I’m close too.”

Once he’s back inside her, she leans down and kisses him through it, drowns her moans in his throat, in time with the movement of her hips and his. It doesn’t take either of them much longer at all. Then, she’s on her back again. Jaime gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom. When he returns, it’s without the condom, but he hasn’t removed his prosthetic yet. He lies down on the bed, on his side, next to her.

“I know it _was_ me,” he begins, “but—you think you’ll have to imagine it was me?”

“I… I can’t _not_. I don’t know how else to do it.” She turns her head to look at him. “What do you do? To make it real for yourself?”

“Hmm. Don’t take this the wrong way, but none of the women—or men, on occasion—” Jaime darts his eyes at her when he says this; Brienne knows it’s happened before, but they’ve never really talked about that. “None of the people I’ve slept with have been built like you.”

“Well, how about before? Before… me?”

“No,” he mumbles, quietly. He doesn’t acknowledge his cousin. “Not even then. The point is, Brienne—I don’t _want_ you there, in my head, when I’m doing any of this. It’s not even—it’s not even in my head at all. I’m not _me_ , if that makes sense.” He traces a finger along the centre of her torso. “That’s just for us.”

 _I’m not me._ Brienne files that one away too; there’s something there she thinks they should discuss, but maybe not right this moment.

“So it feels different? With me?” she asks instead. She had never thought to ask. Or maybe she did, but she didn’t want to know the answer, before tonight.

“ _Of course it does_ ,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“So you know then,” Brienne muses, and turns her head back to the ceiling. “A little of what it must feel like for me.”

“Hmm. I guess I do.”

They both lie there, quietly, listening to each other breathe. Brienne tries to find patterns in the texture of the ceiling.

Then Jaime says the one thing she never, ever wants him to say to her.

“You’re beautiful.”

She swings her head back to him. “ _Jaime_ ,” she hisses.

“Hyle,” he replies, calmly, and lifts his prosthetic. “I’m still Hyle.”

“Don’t do that,” Brienne shoots back. She doesn’t care who he is, he’s supposed to _know_. “You know I hate that word.”

“Yes, I know,” he says, still calm. “Jaime can call Brienne anything but that. ‘Magnificent’, you like that one. ‘Strong’ is fine. Hells, I could even call you a goddess, and you’d accept it. But I’m never to use the word ‘beautiful’. I’m never to _lie_ to you.” There was something about the way he said that— _lie_ —like he didn’t think using _that word_ on her was a lie at all. His eyes don’t waver from hers. “But I’m not Jaime, right now. I’m _Hyle_. Hyle might say that to you. To Jeyne.”

“I highly doubt it,” she scoffs.

“Oh, I’m not saying he’ll _mean_ it.” There’s a callousness to Jaime’s tone that unsettles Brienne. It always unsettles her, when he lets that cruel streak leak out of him, even though she knows it’s part of who he is. “But he might say it. He might think it’s something a woman like you would want to hear. Jeyne, who wears all this makeup to enhance her plain features. To look powerful. To have presence. To _impress_ , in a man’s world. He doesn’t know Brienne, does he? He doesn’t have a clue about your likes and dislikes.”

Jaime stretches his hand across her abdomen, and curls his fingers around her waist. “So, what happens when he calls you ‘beautiful’? When a mark says things to you that you don’t want to hear?”

She sees his logic now, and worries at her lip as she considers his words. “I accept it?” she ventures, nervously.

“Again, it depends on the mark.” Jaime retracts his arm and turns over onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “It depends on what will make the mark _talk_. Who knows—maybe Hyle will feel like you trust him if you share your insecurities. It might make him more likely to open up. Based on what you’ve told me, though, it’s more likely that’ll scare him off. Hyle might want to think that his little compliment _worked_. Or perhaps, if you play coy, you can make him think he’ll get more out of you, down the road. You might get more out of _him_ , that way.”

Jaime doesn’t speak for a while after that, and Brienne knows he’s giving her time to contemplate his words. “Okay,” he says, finally. “Let’s try again. I say, ‘You’re beautiful, Jeyne’.”

She responds before she can even think it through. “You’re just saying that so you get to fuck me again.”

Jaime bursts out laughing. “Seven hells, Brienne, that’s harsh!”

“He’s a straightforward guy! I think he might appreciate it!”

“Alright, wife, if you think so. As long as you get him to _talk_. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been much of a point to all of this.”

Brienne doesn’t want to contemplate the possibility of sleeping with Hyle for _nothing_. It happens, of course it happens. She’s done so many things that turned out to be futile, in the end. But she doesn’t want to think about it.

Jaime is unstrapping his prosthetic now. “Do you think you’ll be able to go through with it?”

“I’m not sure,” she answers. It’s the truth. She brings a finger to his face, starts peeling off the scar there.

“Do you think,” he starts, as he puts his prosthetic on the bedside table, “do you think it might work better for you if you built a connection with him? A deeper one, I mean. Like with me. Or with—with Renly.” His voice trails into a whisper.

“I think—that would be even harder.” Brienne sits up, and begins pulling out the pins that are securing her wig to her scalp.

Jaime sits up too, and stops her hand. “Let me.” He won’t really be much help—it’ll take him longer to find the pins than her, they both know this—but she lets him feel around her scalp for them, remove them one by one.

“Hyle—he betrayed our country,” she continues. “Who knows what he’s telling this government. You should hear the things he says, about home, Jaime,” she sighs. “It’s hard enough for me to sit there and listen to them. _Agree_ with them.”

“You manage with me,” Jaime murmurs.

“What?”

“You know what I think about the Cause,” he says, quietly, setting the pins in his hand beside them on the bed. “You still manage with me.”

“You have other redeeming qualities,” she quips, as she takes off her wig. Brienne doesn’t want to talk about their differences, not right now. So she reaches her hands up to Jaime’s scalp, to help him with his wig, and shifts the conversation back to Hyle. “Gods, you should see his daughter’s face when he makes those comments,” she utters. “I don’t think she’s very happy with her father.”

“Interesting.” Jaime seems to turn her words over in his head. “I wonder if Hyle talks to his daughter about his work. Has she said anything to Pod?”

“Not much, not that Pod has told me. She’s still pretty closed off.” To be frank, Brienne had been so focused on Hyle, and Hyle’s flirtations, that she hadn’t really thought about his daughter at all. “I suppose I could get him to ask.”

Brienne removes the last pin from his wig, and Jaime pulls it from his head with a sigh of relief. “Worth a shot,” he shrugs. “There are other ways to get information, as you well know. Sex—it only works, if it really _fits_. It’s just one of our methods. There are always other ways, Brienne.”

“Yeah. That’s true,” Brienne ponders, as she massages her fingers across Jaime’s scalp. “There are always other ways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, I won’t make you sit through any actual Brienne/Hyle action, even if I decide that it’s going to happen at all (leaning towards ‘no’). I stole the wig removal thing from The Americans, but I won’t go into that, because it might spoil the next bit.
> 
> Thanks to [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign) aka [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde) for being my beta once again. She laughs at me while I internally scream and cringe through writing sex scenes, which is actually more helpful than it sounds.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	18. Destabilisations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I left you hanging for a month. Is anyone still invested in this story? I promise I still am. I thought I could balance this with my [Fictober project](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848634), and that got way more intense than I expected, so intense that I somehow started [a completely separate multi-chapter story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314707) in the middle of it. But, I’m taking a break from that for now, and I’m committed to finishing this fic. I already have half the next chapter written, so that should be out by maybe Sunday, or Monday at the latest!

“Basement,” Brienne says to Jaime under her breath, as soon she steps through the front door with Pod. They’ve just come back from his language class and—what he told her in the car, it could be _nothing_ , but it could also mean—

“It can’t wait?” Jaime asks, concerned. He casts a glance to the dining table, where Myrcella and Tommen are already sitting. The soup he’s prepared is simmering in a pot on the stove, and a platter of sliced bread sits on the counter, ready for their dinner.

“I’ll make it quick.” She hooks her hand around his elbow, and starts walking them towards the entrance to the basement.

“Aren’t we having dinner, Mummy?” Myrcella calls out.

“In a minute, honey,” Brienne replies, then turns to Pod. The boy is biting his lip so hard she fears it might start bleeding. “Pod, maybe you can get started on dinner,” she says, and lifts her chin towards the pot. _Pull yourself together_ , she tries to imply with her gaze. Pod nods nervously and walks to the stove.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jaime hisses, when she closes the basement door behind them.

Brienne puts her hands on her hips, digs her fingers into the ridges of her pelvis. “Pod got her to talk.”

“The daughter?”

“Yeah. It’s not much, but—I’m concerned.”

Jaime leans against the table and folds his arms. “What did she say?”

“She doesn’t know too much about the details. But she said Hyle’s work is—he’s not just working a regular job. He’s some kind of _consultant_. About _us_. He tells them how _we_ grow our food, how _we_ distribute it across our country.” She paces across the room, and back again. “The truth, the details, not—not just what’s reported. We didn’t even know he had access to this information back home.”

“I doubt security is as tight as it should be, where he was working,” Jaime remarks. He’s knitting his brow, but he still looks—and sounds—far calmer than she feels. “You suspect they might be trying to sabotage us in some way?”

“What else could that information be for?” she snaps. There’s something tight in her throat.

Jaime sighs, and brings his hand up to grasp his jaw. “It’s too little to go on, Brienne. What could they possibly do?”

“I don’t know, tamper with our food supply—”

“They can’t poison or starve our entire country, based on the world of one Hyle Hunt,” Jaime counters. “Even if they could, it’s too—too _loud._ Something like that could trigger an all-out war if our side even remotely suspected their involvement, and we’ve _both_ been trying to avoid that for decades.”

“It’s not—even if they don’t do something of that scale—”

Brienne pauses to take a breath, and closes her eyes. It’s all flooding back to her. The days of going hungry, of spending entire mornings lining up for rations, receiving pittance at the end of it. The village market never having anything close to abundance; the half-empty shelves in the general store. _That feeling in her stomach._ She thought she’d long forgotten that—what it felt like to have only a feeling, an ache, and nothing else to fill one’s belly. But now she recalls the times when even the blandest of soups was something to be thankful for, although it was practically water compared to the soup Jaime’s cooked for dinner, back upstairs. It is the simplest thing, Jaime’s recipe, and he had told her casually once that his father would have never stood for a meal so simple as soup and bread in their house. Yet there were times in her childhood when Brienne would have considered that a rare indulgence.

(She thinks, briefly, of when her sisters passed; how her family’s time of mourning had been laced with this sense of relief that there were two less mouths to feed.)

It had been improving by the time she left to join the Centre, with various new programmes being implemented. And when she had moved to the capital for her training, it was obvious things were much better there than on the fringes of the country, where she had grown up. But Gods, it was nothing compared to the first time she had gone grocery shopping _here_. She almost couldn’t breathe at the _multitude_ of it all. There had been something nauseating about it, but she had been awestruck all the same.

“Brienne?” she hears Jaime call. She must have been silent for a while.

“You don’t know what it’s like to go hungry back home, Jaime,” she says, opening her eyes. She hears conviction in her own voice, and not a little spite. “I _know_. There are people back home who are barely scraping by as it is, even if they’re not on the verge of starving to death. We can’t be entirely sure what’s happening, since we’ve been here so long, but it’s… the whole system is _precarious_. One little thing and—”

“Okay,” Jaime cuts her off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“You couldn’t have known,” she replies. “You don’t _know_.”

“No, I _don’t_.” He unfolds his arms, lets his left hand find the edge of the table behind him, grips it hard. She can tell he’s trying not to seethe, and she feels, perhaps unfairly, that he has no right to _seethe_. She knows his childhood was difficult in many ways, but not in _this_ way. “I understand that I was—brought up in different circumstances,” he presses on. “I don’t know these realities first-hand. But you _have_ to admit that it’s not enough, wife. The word of a fourteen-year-old girl, who hates her father for dragging her here in the first place.”

Brienne is suddenly aware that she tastes Jeyne’s nail polish on her tongue, and it’s only then that she realises she’s trying to bite her nails. She hasn’t done that in a long time, not since she was a child. What Hyle is doing—at least according to his daughter—she knows the intel is flimsy at best, but—

“We shouldn’t take chances if people’s lives are at stake,” she declares, finally.

“No,” Jaime acknowledges. “Of course not. I’m not suggesting that we should. I’m just saying we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Is that all we have for Goodwin?”

“There’s more. Those work trips that we know Hyle goes on. He told me that he was being sent all over, to different cities. I had a similar story for him about Jeyne, so maybe he was trying to impress me.” She shares a look with Jaime; they had decided it was unwise to pursue that route with Hyle given Brienne’s inexperience, but Hyle hasn’t exactly given up on her. “But his daughter says he lied,” she continues. “He always goes to the same place.”

“Okay. That’s something concrete. I’m sure we can get the Centre to send someone out there. It might be more productive.”

Jaime stands away from the table, moves towards the stairs. They’ve spent far longer than a minute down here; the children must be more than halfway through their dinner. Then he stops, and turns back to her.

“I… I know it was difficult for you, growing up. I can’t claim to understand. I’ve been—I’ve experienced certain things, during my past missions, but nothing like that. Not when I was a child.”

Brienne just nods. She could tell him about the facts, about the long lines and the empty shelves and the bland soups, how they were part of what shaped her and drove her towards the Cause. But he wouldn’t ever _understand_.

They report all this to Goodwin the next day. Like Jaime, Goodwin is perturbed by the information, but not quite as shaken as she is. He agrees to arrange for another officer to deal with Hyle in that part of the country, which is a small reprieve for her, given that she won’t be able to give Hyle what he seems to want from her at present. But she and Pod have to continue the friendship nonetheless; continue as if everything is normal. They can’t spook Hyle now.

Except everything isn’t normal.

One day, the week after, Jaime doesn’t come back from Pia’s at his usual time. There’s nothing Brienne can do to contact him. At breakfast, the twins ask, “Where’s Daddy?” and she has to smile and say, “He’s working,” a truth and a lie in two words. She’s worried, but she also has to deal with the more pressing issue that _Jaime has the car_ , and she needs to get the twins to school. Pod takes the bus, at least, but they’ve almost always dropped the twins off themselves. There’s a neighbour down the street they carpool with sometimes, thankfully, and Brienne has to beg a favour, smile sheepishly and say, “I’m sorry we didn’t arrange this in advance, my husband got caught up with some work.”

Then, all she can do is wait.

A couple of hours later, the car pulls into the driveway. _Finally._

“Where the fuck have you been?” Brienne demands, storms over to meet Jaime as he walks through the door. She doesn’t mean it to come out so harsh, so desperate, but her nerves have been on edge for days already, and she didn’t know where Jaime _was_ , and _anything could have happened to him_. He doesn’t answer her immediately; he just takes his coat off slowly, hangs it on the stand, and never has such a simple act felt more like a provocation. Jaime owes her an _answer_ , there was no way for her to _know_ , and _anything could have happened to him_ —

Jaime meets her eyes. It’s then that she notices his face is—he’s _pale_.

“Pia had a meeting with Internal Affairs yesterday,” he rasps. “The _real_ Internal Affairs.”

* * *

Everything feels like it’s imploding.

Hyle Hunt is one thing—some part of Jaime still thinks Brienne was blowing things out of proportion, frankly, or at least being too quick to assume the worst. Ultimately, what they had wasn’t much. But it stuck with him, Brienne’s fears, felt worse because there was nothing they could do on their end to get a solid answer one way or the other. On top of that, they couldn’t pull Brienne and Pod out quite yet. Brienne might still have to—

But he can’t think about that, not right now, because he had gone to Pia’s last night, all ready to have dinner with her, with Peck’s wife, to tell her about Peck’s day, all the little details and sentences prepared in his mind as always. He had gone to her place, only to find her _hysterical_ , demanding to know who he is, who he _really_ is, that she had met the real him and _it wasn’t you, Peck, who the hell are you? Oh gods, what have I done?_

When he had finally gotten her to calm down enough to tell him what the hell was going on, she revealed through deep breaths that Internal Affairs had started an investigation into the department because of a suspected mole—things he had told her himself, months and years ago—but it had all been so _official_ , with proper introductions in front of the entire department, and interviews scheduled to take place in a secure room, hers planned for three days from now. Not at all like how Josmyn Peckledon _visited at her house_ , and kept visiting her, and then _married her_.

She had the presence of mind to stay calm in the office, but inside she had been _screaming_ , she told him. She doesn’t think they know about the pen in her boss’s office yet, but she had _left it there_ , too much in a panic internally to do anything about it, too afraid someone would see her. And Jaime knew that there was absolutely no way they wouldn’t find it within the day, and Gods, who knows, they might have swept the office after Pia left.

Regardless, Jaime needed her to go back and get that pen, if it was still there undiscovered. He needed her to go to the office first thing in the morning, as early as possible without appearing suspicious, and then stay there the entire day, continuing on as if everything was normal. He needed her to _stay there_ , in the office, to do her job while they figured everything out, stay there through her interview, with the _real agents from Internal Affairs_. The likelihood was that they wouldn’t immediately suspect her, a secretary, and interviewing her was just routine. But he didn’t know how long Pia could hold it together. He needed Pia to hold it together.

These were all the things Jaime needed Pia to do. Yet he couldn’t ask them of her, not last night. First, he had to convince her that he loves her, and that is all that matters, all that should matter. So he held her through the night, held her until she was calm. When she woke in the early morning, gave her trust to him, Jaime realised that the most perverse thing about the whole situation was that she wouldn’t have trusted him so readily if Jaime hadn’t lied to her for so many years—almost four now. There was something in Peck that she couldn’t throw away, that she still desperately wanted to believe.

He had said that he was Josmyn Peckledon, that he was still her Peck, still the man she married. So many lies fell from his lips that he could still _taste_ them, hours later. Yet there had been truth in his words—he is still that man, and he is Jaime Lannister too. He has a wife, Brienne, and they have twins, Myrcella and Tommen, and a foster child named Podrick. And even as he thought of his family, he was affirming that _I wouldn’t leave you, Pia, and I want you safe._ He was asking her, _you wouldn’t leave me, would you? You wouldn’t put me in danger?_

Pia shook her head in response. She didn’t ask him again, not last night and not this morning, about who he really is, and why he’s needed all this information from her.

Jaime sent Pia off to work this morning, later than he usually leaves her apartment this day of the week. He knew Brienne must be worrying—and the kids, she needs the car to get them to school. But he had to be with Pia until the last possible moment. There’s always a chance that everything might fall apart, that she’d head into Counterintelligence today and tell them that she did it, she’s the mole, she didn’t intend to be. He needed her to be fine, to remember that Peck is her husband, to hold onto that and get through the day. He promised he’d be back at her apartment again that night.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Brienne demands when he returns home, and there’s something wild in her eyes, fear rather than censure. He can’t respond; he’s thinking of Pia, hysterical Pia, when he had gone to her last night. Finally, everything spills out of him, and the same voice he had used to comfort Pia, to steady her, is now a voice filled with uncertainty and guilt and fear. It’s Brienne that has to steady him, to tell him everything will be alright. It’s absurd that of all the years he’s spent in this job, all the times he’s come so close to being found out, all the people that he’s lied to and slept with and killed—hells, _Aerys Targaryen_ —it’s absurd that _this_ should be the mission that unsettles him the most.

They meet with Goodwin that afternoon, tell him everything. There’s no sign right now that Pia is being suspected at all, but Goodwin sighs and grimaces nonetheless. He asks if there’s a possibility that she might still be able to work for them from the inside, turn this whole situation to their favour. Tell her some of the truth, though not all of it, and bring her over to their side. Jaime shakes his head. He doesn’t think she has the mettle for it, even if she had any inclination towards the Cause.

That night, he goes back to Pia’s. She doesn’t have the pen. _It’s gone_ , she says. And she has no idea if they found it, or if they suspect her. No one is saying anything, and her interview is still scheduled for the day after. Jaime has no choice but to begin coaching her for it, teaching her techniques to stay calm, to avoid revealing too much. She is sullen, and he knows she is wondering how he knows all of this. He stays with her through the night again.

The next day, back home, Jaime thinks of Renly Baratheon—how Renly had thought his brothers had discovered the bugs he’d planted, how he’d thought he was being followed, how desperate he was to evade capture. Jaime thinks of the night that he killed him, on Brienne’s behalf, based on nothing more than Renly’s paranoid suspicions, and an unwillingness to take a chance. An unwillingness to save Renly. _He knew our first names_ , Jaime reminds himself. _He knew about our links to the Cause. It was too dangerous._

He doesn’t tell Brienne that he thinks of Renly Baratheon. He leaves for Pia’s again, coaches her again, stays the night again.

The next evening, Pia comes back and says, voice trembling, that she doesn’t think they suspect her. She thinks, however, that she overheard her boss mention something about a pen, but she can’t be sure. She breaks down crying.

Jaime thinks it’s time for an exit strategy. He tells Brienne so, and she agrees. So that’s what they say when they meet Goodwin again. The man doesn’t respond at first, stays quiet, thinking. In the silence, Jaime feels compelled to say, adamantly:

“I won’t kill her.”

Goodwin looks up at him. “I wasn’t going to suggest that.”

 _Not yet_ , his tone implies.

“Is exfiltration an option?” Jaime asks. Brienne reaches over and grasps his hand. He never mentioned Renly by name, but he knows she is thinking of him too, now. He tightens his grip on her hand.

“I’ll send word back to the Centre,” Goodwin replies, noncommittally. “We can ask, that is all.”

Jaime stands up abruptly from his chair. “Damn it, Goodwin, she’s given us _enough_! There must be something we can do!” He steps back then, shocked by his own outburst, and looks down to see Brienne is staring up at him, her hand still in his. _Where is this coming from?_ her eyes ask. _I don’t know_ , he responds.

“We’ll try our best, Jaime,” Goodwin says, kindly as he can. “That’s all I can promise you for now. Just focus on keeping Pia calm. Regardless, we’ll have to explain away her absence, so we should start planning for that too.”

(Later, he will tell Brienne that he is sorry they didn’t fight harder for Renly. Brienne will shake her head, and kiss him, and say they made the best choice they could at the time.)

For the next week, he spends all the time he can afford with Pia. He makes her false promises—more false promises than before—whatever he can do to keep her as calm and assured as could be expected in a situation like this. One morning, Myrcella and Tommen ask him why he’s been away so much. They’ve noticed, though it’s not even been two weeks since everything changed. “I have a lot of work to do,” is all he can tell them, “I’m so sorry.” Pod averts his eyes—he doesn’t know all the details, but Brienne has told him enough.

Then, finally, they get a message from the Centre. Their meeting with Goodwin is to take place at a new location, not their usual safe house. Jaime thinks it’s odd, changing their location right now, but then again, what is one odd thing amidst all of _this_?

As it turns out, it’s not just _one_ odd thing.

Because when Jaime and Brienne walk through the door, they find that Goodwin isn’t alone.

Sitting next to him is a man whom Jaime hasn’t seen in years; never quite expected he would see again. Nothing is more evident of those years of separation than the scar stretching across the man’s face, which hadn’t been there during their last meeting. It is a wound that appears to have cut deep, but has had the time to fully heal, as well as it could while still leaving its mark.

“Jaime?” he hears Brienne call. It is only then that Jaime realises he is just standing there, rooted to the same spot, unable to make a sound.

The man gets down from his chair. He’s not much more than four, four-and-a-half feet tall, but Jaime already knew that. He’s known that for a very long time. The man walks over to him, and stops right in front of him.

“Hello, brother. It’s been a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, shit is going down.
> 
> Both the Hyle Hunt and Pia storylines are based off their counterparts in The Americans, but with a lot of details pared down and timelines shortened just to adapt it for this fic. Tyrion is my addition, obviously, but I’ve been planning for months to have him make an appearance at this point.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	19. Lineages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m beyond excited to introduce Tyrion. Hope you enjoy this one!

Before this afternoon, Jaime’s brother had been an entirely abstract concept.

All Brienne had known about him was that he existed, and for some reason, Jaime wasn’t willing to talk about him.

Then they had walked into that meeting. Now Brienne knows how he looks, how he moves, how he speaks. She knows his name—

Well, the name he uses here. Tyrion.

And he will be their new handler.

The brothers had embraced—tentatively—once Jaime recovered from the shock. Brienne saw affection in the gesture, but there was also a stiffness that made her uncomfortable. She found herself looking off to the side to avoid the sight.

When they broke apart, Jaime touched the bridge of his nose. “What happened?” he asked.

Tyrion mirrored his brother, put a finger to where the scar on his face crossed the same spot. “Ah. Occupational hazards.” He nodded towards Jaime’s prosthetic.

Jaime just nodded back.

Tyrion turned to Brienne—she noticed then that he has one green eye, and one black—and introduced himself. He called her good-sister with solemnity, yet there had been something teasing about it too. It struck her later that she perceived a strange paradox in his demeanour, some kind of lightness on the surface of him that belied a weight at his core, a weight she couldn’t quite parse—and of which she felt all the more wary.

“I’m sure it must come as a surprise to you, that Jaime has a brother,” he said. “That the General has another son.”

“No,” Brienne replied, and said nothing further. It was almost as if elaborating would have betrayed Jaime’s confidence, though there was hardly anything to say. She knew a brother existed, that was all. But Jaime had told her that in agitation—in trying to explain why his childhood haunted him even now. She wouldn’t have known otherwise.

Tyrion just raised an eyebrow at her, before inviting them both to sit down.

With Tyrion’s unexpected arrival came news that Pia’s exfiltration had been approved by the Centre. It was what Jaime wanted, and Brienne was grateful for that. Still, the identity of the messenger made it difficult for her to feel much relief, and she suspected it was the same for Jaime. In any case, exfiltration came with its own set of challenges—not least of which was whether Pia would even come willingly, and how they would deal with her if she didn’t. It was, in its own way, more complicated than the alternative.

Brienne wasn’t quite sure which was the more merciful option. She thought of what it had been like for her to come here—how hard it had been the first year, and even after, although she had been trained for it. Pia would simply have to acclimate, with no warning at all. No family. No partner.

Regardless of the toll this would take on Pia, Tyrion emphasised that the whole process should be as smooth as possible from the Centre’s perspective. Hence Goodwin—whom Pia had at least met once, when he was in the guise of Peck’s father at the wedding—was to accompany her back to their country. Tyrion would take over as their handler from that point forth. Upon hearing that, Brienne had looked over at Goodwin—someone she considered a friend, a friend Jaime had brought to her—and he returned her gaze with an expression of gentle resignation. So she would have to bid farewell to someone too.

Jaime reached over to her lap, put his hand over hers. Brienne saw Tyrion glance at that with interest.

“Father sent you then,” Jaime said, without moving his hand, and Tyrion looked back at him. “To oversee this—transition. And for after.”

“He thought you might appreciate a familiar face,” Tyrion replied, with a half-smile that implied that wasn’t the General’s intention at all.

Jaime just huffed in response. There was something communicated between them that Brienne couldn’t quite understand.

“Anyway,” Tyrion continued. “To the matter at hand. Is there anything we could offer Pia that might help—make things easier? We’d like to avoid dragging her back kicking and screaming.”

Jaime was quiet for awhile, and when Brienne turned her head to him, she could see that he was still looking at Tyrion as if his brother was not quite real.

“A child,” he pronounced, finally.

“She wanted children with you—with Peck?” Tyrion clarified.

“Yes. I told her we couldn’t manage it right now, with my schedule.”

“She was looking forward to it,” Brienne confirmed. “Almost—almost desperate for it. It could help. If we offered her a child to care for back home. Not as a trade for her—” she had almost said _freedom_ — “compliance, but maybe to help her after.”

Tyrion gave her an inquisitive look. “And you know this… how?”

“I met her on my own once—I mean, as Jaime’s half-sister. Had coffee with her one weekend. We… talked.” Brienne quickly brushed away a memory from that afternoon, the moment she had accidentally knocked over her cup, listening to Pia gush about children she imagined she might have with Peck.

“I see,” Tyrion acknowledged. He held that inquisitive look for a while longer.

For the rest of the meeting, they discussed other details—how they might convince Pia to leave her home (a weekend trip with Peck, to take some of the pressure off); how they might explain things to her parents (a well-timed message left on their answering machine, with a script prepared for Pia); how they might prevent Counterintelligence from getting suspicious of her absence (a scapegoat—someone from IT perhaps, who has regular access to the department but not regular interaction with its agents—and a confession of treason in the form of a faked suicide note).

Throughout their conversation, Jaime periodically gripped her hand or her knee under the table, agreed to everything with a weary sigh.

Just before they were about to leave, Tyrion pulled Brienne aside.

“I’d like to meet with you here tomorrow. Alone.”

“What for?”

“To get to know you,” he said, simply.

“And Jaime?”

Tyrion paused for a beat. “We’ll speak separately. It’ll be… easier that way. For all three of us.”

Brienne hadn’t been sure what exactly he meant at the time. She’d simply nodded, then left the safe house with Jaime. He’d been able to come home with her—Pia had to work late, Jaime said, and she’d asked Peck for some time to herself for a couple of nights. It’s a respite of sorts, but a disconcerting one, even with the knowledge that Pia’s phone line is tapped, that there’s an agent stationed in a parked car outside of her apartment building, keeping her under surveillance.

At least they have a night to themselves now—a night for that small luxury of just lying beside each other in bed, for the first time in what feels like a long time. The twins are asleep, and Pod has retreated to his room, probably nose deep in a book. It feels like any other night. It feels like _before_.

Brienne turns on her side to face Jaime. He’s flat on his back, just staring up at the ceiling. _No_ , she thinks, _it isn’t like before at all._

“Should I—expect anything?” she breaks the silence, “For the meeting with Tyrion tomorrow?”

He looks over at her. “I don’t know. He said it was to get to know you?”

She nods. “And he said it’d be easier to speak—without you. What do you think he meant by that?”

Jaime casts his eyes towards his toes. “I don’t know,” he mumbles again.

Brienne winds her hand around his left arm. “Now that he’s here,” she says, hesitantly, “will you tell me more about him? Not now, but—sometime.”

He lifts his stump and places it over her hand. “Ask him tomorrow.”

“What?”

Jaime turns to face her, and brushes his stump over her cheek. “Ask my brother. It’s… In some ways, it’s his story to tell.”

“And you think he’ll tell _me_?”

“He’ll tell you what he thinks is necessary for you to know.”

There is something about Jaime’s phrasing that Brienne finds unnerving. So much of their lives revolves around revealing, and obtaining, and concealing information—all that is _necessary to know_ , for different parties—yet the idea of his brother managing the narrative of their childhood in this same way feels _off_ , somehow. But she supposes the most important thing is that Jaime has given her permission to possess that information, after all this time. Even if he will not tell her himself.

He slides his stump under her arm, brings her closer into him. “How are you feeling? About everything?” he asks, softly. “I haven’t had the chance to ask you.”

Brienne almost sucks in a breath. _How is she feeling?_ All this time she’s been so worried about Jaime that she hasn’t even stopped to think about that.

“I suppose I’m anxious, mostly. I… I know it’s not easy to trace Pia back to us, to our family, but it _feels_ like it is. And I’m concerned for you too.” She brings her arm around his waist then. “I just want everything to be over.”

Jaime lets his forehead touch hers. “Me too,” he sighs, and she feels his breath on her lips.

Now that Jaime’s asked that question, though, Brienne can’t stop thinking about _how she feels_. She slips her hand under his shirt—just like _before_ —and warms her palm on his lower back. “Is it bad if I feel—if I’m glad I don’t have to share you anymore?” she whispers. It’s the first time, really, that she’s been so direct about this. “At least for a while after she leaves?”

“No,” Jaime says. “It makes me feel—I feel terrible, and I, I wish there was another solution. But—I’m glad too. That there’ll be one less person.”

Brienne thinks he’s not just talking about Pia. He won’t just have one less person in his life, one less agent; he’ll have one less person to _be_ —there will be no more Josmyn Peckledon.

Jaime looks at her, parts his lips as if he wants to speak again, but doesn’t.

“What is it?” Brienne probes, gently.

“The child,” he sighs, “for Pia. Do you think it will help?”

“It’s hard to say,” she replies. She has to be honest.

Jaime stiffens in her arms, and she knows he’d hoped for a different answer. “What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t just want a child, Jaime,” Brienne exhales. “She wants a child _with Peck_. She wants a family with him. She won’t be getting that. And it—” she bites down on her lower lip for a second— “it may not be easy, for her to bond with a child that isn’t biologically hers. Not at first.”

His stump is stroking down her spine now. “Are you… speaking from experience?”

They’ve never talked about this before—how difficult it had been for her with the twins. Myrcella and Tommen have known no mother besides her, and she remembers that night, so early on, when Jaime told her he considered her their mother too. But in truth, it took time for her to feel like anything more than their caretaker. She couldn’t tell Jaime about it at the time—their partnership had been so uneasy—and then she and Jaime had started talking, _really_ talking, and it became easier and easier to feel like they were a family. Before she knew it, she’d come to see the twins as hers; and later, Jaime.

“For the first year or so,” she admits. “It was… challenging. I wasn’t sure if I was feeling anything more than a—a general affection for them. I didn’t know what being a mother was supposed to feel like. And there were times when Tommen wouldn’t stop crying, or Myrcella wouldn’t go to sleep, and I would wonder if—if it was me. If _I_ was the reason why.”

It’s not that she thought there was _one way_ to feel like a mother, and it’s not that she truly believed that the twins somehow _knew_ that she didn’t give birth to them, at age one, or two, or even three. But she just couldn’t stop questioning herself at the time.

Jaime leans in, and presses a light kiss to her lips. Oh, it’s just like _before_. “I wish I could have helped you,” he says, when he pulls back. “I think—I remember really wanting you to talk to me.”

Brienne tries to smile. “You helped, in the end. Just by… being there. It just—it’s something that takes time. Having someone to care for—to love—I think it’ll help Pia, later. Make things easier for her. It’d have to be managed well, I think—I’ll speak to Goodwin about it. We don’t want her to look at the child and think of what she’s lost, by leaving. It won’t be fair to her, or the child.”

His lips meet hers again; pull away. “You’re so _good_ , you know that? Sometimes I wonder how you’re real.”

She feels faintly stunned by Jaime’s comment. “I’m only—I just think we can still try to do the most decent thing, even in the worst situations.”

“You always say that like it’s so easy.”

“It’s not.” She lifts her hand to his cheek. “You know this, Jaime. And you _try_ , too.”

He kisses her once more. It could have been twice, or two hundred times. But it feels like one unbroken thing, hours long.

The next day, Jaime drops Brienne off at the new safe house on his way to another meeting. Their lives—they don’t stop just because one mission is falling apart, no matter how devastating that collapse may be. And so she is sitting across from Tyrion again, without Jaime or Goodwin. She tries not to notice that she feels more vulnerable than she has in a long time.

“Wine?” Tyrion offers. There’s two glasses on the table already, one of them filled, though Brienne notes that the bottle standing next to them is already half-empty.

“No, thank you,” Brienne declines. “I don’t drink.” She thinks of an impulsive, whiskey-fuelled argument in a basement, years ago. It’s best she stays sober for this conversation.

“I wasn’t aware that you knew about me,” Tyrion begins. “Jaime is—he’s been trained well by my father not to discuss me at all.” He takes a sip of his wine, but doesn’t explain further, and Brienne doesn’t think it’s her place to ask. “Not to mention,” he continues, “you’re not _technically_ supposed to be revealing your pasts to each other.”

“That’s all he’s told me—that he has a brother.” She doesn’t address his last comment; surely he knows, from how Jaime had secured Goodwin, that they share some of their histories with each other. She doesn’t have to tell him exactly how much of those histories they really share.

“Mm. Jaime is—” Tyrion pauses, and there’s a twist of something in his face—some pain, Brienne thinks—but then it passes. “Maybe later,” he smiles, with something not quite approaching warmth. “Let’s talk about you first.”

She furrows her brow. “What _about_ me? Don’t you have a file—reports from Goodwin?”

He shrugs. “That’s different from really _knowing_ someone, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure this conversation will change that,” she responds, colder than she intended. Brienne is supposed to _trust_ her handler, no matter what. But there’s something about Tyrion’s manner that she finds disconcerting. And the way he just appeared—the tension between him and Jaime—she doesn’t know what to make of it all.

If Tyrion noticed her brusqueness—he must have, he doesn’t seem like a man who misses anything—then he does a good job of ignoring it. “Well, tell me, Brienne,” he says, almost jovially. “How are you? Besides the situations with Pia, and this—Hyle Hunt. Life with my brother, here in the enemy state.” The last sentence comes out in a kind of sing-song; the words ‘enemy state’ ring hollow.

“You’re very calm about everything,” she observes.

Tyrion smiles again, that not-quite-warm smile. “There’s no use for panic, I’ve found. We solve every situation as cleanly as we can.”

“We’re not killing Pia,” she feels the urge to repeat, in spite of Tyrion’s promises.

“I’ve already said, we’ve approved exfiltration.” He tilts his head. “Why does it matter to you anyway, if Pia dies? She’s Jaime’s agent, not yours. She’s his—”

“She’s innocent. And she’s helped us for a long time,” Brienne interrupts, before Tyrion can complete that sentence. “Pia is—she’s important to him.” She doesn’t know any other way to phrase it. She knows Jaime doesn’t _love_ Pia; not the way he loves her, anyway. But she’s important to him all the same, even if that importance stems from some kind of remorse.

“We won’t kill her. My father won’t allow it.” He takes another sip of wine. “Jaime is loyal, and excellent at his job, but—he can be impulsive at times. Volatile. He’s always been that way.”

Brienne finds she can’t fully disagree with Tyrion’s assessment. There’ve been so many times over the years when Jaime has had to brace her, hold her. But she’s had to do the same for him too.

“It’s better for all of us if we can keep Pia alive, wherever she ends up,” Tyrion concludes. “If that’s what Jaime wants.”

He leans forward, puts his elbows on the table. “Like I said, though, we’re not here to talk about her.”

Brienne folds her arms. “I don’t know what to tell you about me. About our lives.” What could she say? Everything felt too, too _intimate_ to share with him. Even if he is Jaime’s brother. “We manage.”

“Hmm. How are the children?”

“Good.” She tries to say more, but feels once again there is too much to explain; every adjective on the tip of her tongue seems too insubstantial to describe Myrcella and Tommen. Pod too, though she doubts Tyrion meant to include him in the question. She can only say: “Happy.”

“That’s good to know. Jaime and I, we—”

Tyrion stops, and seems to think better of saying more than that. Brienne can guess it must have been some reference to their childhood. “I suppose I’ll never be able to meet them,” he says instead. He leans back again, picks up the bottle of wine and refills his glass. “I’m sorry about that.”

Brienne thinks that sounds sincere, even fond. She feels somewhat sorry too, that these are the way things have to be. But that feeling doesn’t last long, because then he asks:

“How has it been for you—taking care of his children?”

 _His children._ There’s a measure of kindness, of _sympathy_ , in Tyrion’s voice. _How hard it must be for you, to care for children you didn’t bear_. But Brienne doesn’t need his sympathy.

“They’re _our_ children,” she corrects, sharply. “It’s not—I’m their _mother_.”

He gives her an indecipherable look—no, it’s not indecipherable at all, it’s something _knowing_ —and she has this odd feeling that he is seeing her anew.

“You love him,” he states, matter-of-factly. Not _them_ , not the children. Jaime.

“We love each other,” Brienne replies, holding his gaze. She’s not caught off-guard by Tyrion’s observation at all. What surprises her is her own steadiness—even after all this time of loving Jaime, of him loving her, she still wakes up some mornings and can’t quite believe it. Yet those words had fallen from her lips so easily.

“Mm. He does seem quite unconcerned about our cousin’s fate for the first time in his life.”

The question is out of her mouth before she can stop herself. “Is she—dead?”

“No. Not dead,” is all Tyrion confirms.

Brienne isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“You know,” Tyrion tips his wine glass towards her, “when I devised the Programme, it was never my intention for the assigned officers to—fall in love.”

_What?_

“You—you devised the Programme?” He can’t be much older than her, and yet he—if he’s telling the truth, then he’s in some way determined the trajectory of her life. She is speaking with the architect of her existence—her existence here in this country.

He nods, but doesn’t preen. “There are others who were already married, or together in some form. But for those who were strangers, there was no expectation of it. I’m curious—do you think it helps you? With the job?”

What was it she had said to Jaime once? _I’m happier than I thought I would ever be. It makes a lot of things easier, but it’s also harder, in many ways._ “We… The most important thing for the job is that we trust each other fully. But we had that before either of us—developed feelings.”

She stops to think for a moment. _Does it help us?_ She’s not sure. She sighs; switches the cross of her legs. “The truth is, it can complicate matters.” _Matters like Pia._ “But we—we wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s more challenging for some aspects of the job, but less… lonely. To have Jaime, and the children. It’s something to hold onto—” _you’re that_ something _for me_ , Jaime had once told her— “through everything.”

Brienne bites her lip, realising just then that it’s the most she’s said throughout this whole conversation.

“Shouldn’t that be the Cause?” Tyrion asks, rubbing his chin. He has that knowing look again. “That something to hold onto?”

“Oh—of course—” she scrambles.

He lets out a short laugh _._ A _laugh_. “Don’t worry,” he assures her. “I’m the last person who’ll demand that sort of allegiance from you.”

Brienne thought she would understand more about Tyrion as this conversation progressed, but he’s only become more of a conundrum. “Shouldn’t you?” she pushes. “As our handler?”

“My only concern is that you complete your missions,” he replies, calmly. “Why you do them—how you get through each day—it’s of interest to me, but there’s no one way to get things done, is there?”

If he had asked Brienne that question a few years ago, she might not have agreed. But now—

No, she can’t think about that.

“I do believe in the Cause,” she asserts. “As strongly as I ever did.”

“But Jaime doesn’t.”

He must know already, of course. And if Jaime chooses to be frank with his brother when he meets him on his own, that’s his prerogative. But Brienne won’t give Tyrion the satisfaction of confirming the statement. She looks straight into his eyes. “He won’t betray us.”

Tyrion doesn’t respond to that. He just— _regards_ her. She wonders, all of a sudden, if Tyrion might find her a conundrum too. After a while, he moves on to ask her about their other missions, past and present. But she has the sense that he’s asking not to find out about the missions themselves, but about _her_.

“Well, before we finish up here,” he eventually says. “Do you have questions for me, Brienne?”

 _Ask him tomorrow_ , Jaime had said _._ Should she? She thinks of all the things Jaime doesn’t want to tell her about his family, and she thinks of how Jaime had given her permission to know. It still feels like she is going behind Jaime’s back, hearing this from someone other than him.

But—just one question wouldn’t hurt, would it? If it’s about something Tyrion himself said?

“What did you mean just now,” she ventures, “that your Father trained Jaime not to discuss you?”

“Ah.” Tyrion pauses, drains his glass, sets it back down on the table. He doesn’t fill it again. “Before I answer that—can I ask, what has Jaime told you about his past?”

Brienne turns over every possible answer in her mind; presses her fingernails into the flesh of her thumb. She still has this instinct to protect Jaime, protect what they have, even from his own brother. So she settles on: “He’s vague about most things before Aerys Targaryen.”

Tyrion perks up at that. “He’s told you about Targaryen? The truth?”

“Yes. A long time ago.”

“That’s—that’s good. He trusts you then.” He looks away, as if to arrange his thoughts, then lifts his eyes to her again. “It’s important that you trust me, isn’t it, Brienne?”

“As my handler, yes.”

“But you don’t.”

“I’ve only just met you.”

“Fair point,” he concedes, tilting his head. “But… if I tell you a bit about our childhood, do you think it will go some way to building that trust?”

She takes a moment to consider this. She knows next to nothing about Goodwin’s life, and yet she trusts him. But with Tyrion—the _unknown_ weighs on her, she realises. How all the things unknown to her disturb Jaime, and even Tyrion himself.

“Jaime told me,” she says, “you’d tell me what you think is necessary for me to know.”

“Mm.” He puts the tips of his fingers together. “Okay then—in brief. When I was born, our mother—she died giving birth to me. And I was—well. You see what I am.” He waves one hand over himself. “Because of some combination of both of those things, our father decided I was to be… kept a secret. People were told that my mother and I had both passed. Our father, he didn’t—I wasn’t allowed out of the house for years. So my only companion, besides the nannies, was Jaime. There was our cousin too, of course, but she was quite adept at pretending I didn’t exist.”

Brienne nods at this. She thinks of how the woman had called her a ‘cow’, the one and only time they had been in the same room; she thinks of how Jaime was ordered to wear his prosthetic to bed. She suspects she knows why Tyrion was so thoroughly ignored.

“But Jaime,” Tyrion keeps going, “he had permission to spend time with me, on the condition that he didn’t speak _of_ me to anyone else. Not even to our own father, for a long time. I believe, in fact, that he may have been punished if he ever did so, though he never told me _how_. Even now, very few people know that the General has a second son.”

 _Then why is he—_ “But—you’re _here_. Doing this.”

A corner of Tyrion’s mouth turns upward. “See, the thing is—when you’re left alone, you have to find some way to preoccupy yourself. Read, for example. A lot. And our father—I barely saw him, but he still saw to it that I had some education, a tutor at home. I suppose he found out I was clever enough. And he was ready to use that, when the time came. It was all very convenient. My intelligence, coupled with the fact that practically no one knew I existed. I was a ghost—still am, in some ways—and that makes for a pretty good spy, doesn’t it? Oh, don’t look at me like that, Brienne.”

She must have had some expression of—of mild horror, on her face. She tries to recompose it into something more neutral. But she also needs to know: “How are you—okay with all of this?”

He spreads his arms. “This is the only life I know.”

It’s not the first time she’s heard those words. “That’s exactly what Jaime says,” Brienne murmurs.

Tyrion just smiles again. This time, it seems a little sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the little details about Pia’s impending departure were lifted from Martha’s storyline in The Americans. However, they don’t offer her a chance to adopt a child until after she heads back to the Soviet Union.
> 
> Thanks to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/) for reading this chapter, as always.
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	20. Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. The good news is, this is the last chapter in which Pia appears. The bad news is, it hurts a whole lot.

They deal with the scapegoat first—the department’s computer specialist, a man who lives alone, no close family or friends. The entire department is on high alert, and if Pia disappears it’ll be best to create a distraction first, or the investigation will swiftly zero in on her. It is Brienne who handles it, who leaves behind the forged suicide note. The authorities will find him soon enough. It might work—the investigation might stop at the man’s death—or it might not. But it’ll give them some leeway.

When Jaime goes to Pia’s next, ready to propose their surprise weekend trip, he finds her waiting for him with a suitcase sitting at her feet, already packed. _I’m going to my parents’_ , she says, holding back tears. _I need a break. I can’t take it._

He tries to convince her not to, tells her he’s planned a trip just for them, but she won’t listen. Only trembles and says, _I’ve called them to say I’m coming. I didn’t tell them anything about you or the investigation, I just told them that I wanted to visit._

He doesn’t know what else to do, to get her to come with him. And he has nothing to offer her in that moment but—himself.

So, Jaime does something he never intended to do.

Very slowly, he takes off Peck’s glasses, and sets them on the dining table. Then, one by one, he removes each pin affixing Peck’s wig to his scalp. He glances at his reflection in a mirror on Pia’s living room wall as he does so. He’s seen them both, separately, countless times— _Jaime’s_ reflection, _Pia’s_ mirror—but never together. He looks away. In his fist, the pins imprint themselves onto the flesh of his palm; his wig hangs limply from between his fingers.

Pia doesn’t cry. She can barely speak.

Quietly, he tells her his real name, the one he was given at birth. Just his first name, though it’s hardly felt like his own for the longest time. When those syllables fall from his lips, his mind goes—of all places—to his brother. It is the name by which his brother had called him for many years, and would likely never use again, though they’ve been unexpectedly reunited. The name isn’t shared between brothers now—it is a rare truth shared between spy and mark. It is a lie confessed, from husband to wife. Pia hears it and, if she hadn’t guessed already, she knows then, what country he must come from. She knows the geopolitical game in which she has served as one oblivious pawn among many. He doesn’t need to explain much more. One name is enough.

(For days and weeks and months after, Jaime won’t be able to shake the thought that he has never given so much for one mission—even counting the mission that cost him his hand. He has to remind himself, again and again, that Pia will never know all of him. He has given her his real name, that much is true. But ‘Jaime’—said as a greeting, a question, a scolding, a tease, a moan, a whisper; said in a thousand different ways; said as a declaration of love—‘Jaime’ is for his life with Brienne. It is for Brienne only.)

And so, Pia comes with him, suitcase and all. She knows she doesn’t have a choice; or she does, but each of her options seems poorer than the last. It is treason, what she’s been doing for almost four years. Even if, by some miracle, the investigation doesn’t lead back to her—they’d only just found the body of the computer specialist, so there’s no knowing yet if they’ll buy the suicide note—Pia wouldn’t be able to continue at Counterintelligence without inevitably breaking. Yet if she quits her job in the near future, goes back to live with her parents for no particular reason, it would only attract suspicion. And there is no telling what would happen to her if she came clean. She could point a finger at her husband, at Peck, but he is a man who doesn’t even exist. There would be no way to prove she had been the victim. There would be no way of knowing if she would be treated with mercy.

 _This is the only way I can keep you safe_ , Jaime pleads, _and I want you safe, Pia. It’s the most important thing to me._

Jaime doesn’t feel like he is lying, this time. In any case, to keep Pia safe is to keep his family safe too.

It is only after he brings her to the safe house (he knows now why the Centre had arranged for a new one); after he has given her some time alone in the bedroom, hears her soft cries through the door; after Goodwin has arrived, still in disguise as Peck’s father, to see Jaime not in disguise at all; after Jaime brings her out to meet with the person she had previously known only as her good-father; after he tells her that it would be Goodwin that would accompany her for the rest of her journey—

it is only then that Pia asks: “You’re not coming with me?”

Jaime has to take a moment to gather his thoughts. He walks up to her, puts his hand on her arm.

“No, Pia. I won’t—we won’t be able to see each other after you leave.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. “You won’t even—you can’t even visit me?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be alone again.” Another tear, and another. “Just the way it was before I met you.”

Pia buries her face in his chest, just then. Jaime cradles her head with his left hand, rests his prosthetic on her back. He is glad Brienne isn’t here to see this.

That night, he stays at the safe house with Pia. Neither of them seem able to fall asleep. It doesn’t seem real—she will leave in less than two days. “I don’t even know the language,” she whispers into her pillow at some point during the night. “I know. I’m sorry,” Jaime replies. He has the fleeting thought that he might teach her some phrases, lying there in the shabby bed of the safe house, since they both can’t sleep anyway. But he doubts she’ll remember anything.

Brienne arrives the next morning with breakfast. It’s the weekend, but Pod is keeping the twins occupied. Like Goodwin, she’s in full disguise. Her eyes widen when she sees that it is Jaime, not Peck, that meets her in the hallway.

“I had to—I didn’t know what else to do,” Jaime says, helplessly. “She was threatening to go back to her parents. She wouldn’t come with me otherwise.”

Brienne just nods. Very soon, it won’t matter that Pia knows what he really looks like. “How is she?”

“Terrified one moment.” Jaime brings a palm to his cheek and sighs. “Resigned the next.”

“Go get her for breakfast,” Brienne replies, as she moves into the kitchen. “I’ll talk to her later.”

“Will that help? You talking to her?”

Brienne pauses and turns back to face him. “It can’t hurt.”

No. Nothing much can hurt now.

Jaime coaxes Pia from the bedroom eventually. When she sees Brienne, her jaw drops open a little, but that is all. She eats her breakfast with them in silence. Jaime considers, perhaps, that Pia won’t find many things quite so shocking anymore.

After their meal, with Pia seeming relatively calm, Jaime has her call her parents first, to tell them that she isn’t coming that weekend. There will be no message for the answering machine, since they are expecting her already, so a phone call would be best. Jaime reminds her—gently but firmly—that it’s important that her parents are not implicated in this at all. They can’t know anything. So she says into the phone: _Things blew up at work_. _I’m sorry, I won’t be able to come_. Jaime can just barely hear the tinny voice of her father asking, _Pia, is something wrong?_ And she has to stretch the phone out away from herself to gasp before she can tell him, _No, I’m fine. I love you. Can I talk to Mum?_

When she hangs up, she breaks down again. “She said she’ll see me soon,” Pia recounts, between sobs into Jaime’s shoulder. “But she won’t.”

“We’ll get a message to them later, Pia,” Jaime promises. “They’ll know you’re alright.”

Jaime sees Brienne looking at them from the corner of the room. She walks away after a while, probably heading to speak with Goodwin. She has to say her goodbyes too.

Later, Brienne knocks softly on the door of the bedroom. Jaime watches as Pia lets her in, equal parts wary and defeated. Brienne stays in there for a long time; Jaime just sits on the stairs and waits. He can hear murmurs from the room, then long silences, then murmurs again. Nothing more.

When Brienne emerges, closes the door behind her, she seems calm, but there’s something ashen about her face.

“What did you talk about?” he asks, as she sits beside him on the stairs.

“She—the first thing she asked was if I’m sleeping with you too.”

Jaime almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “What did you say?”

“Of course I denied it.” Brienne chews on her lip for a few seconds. “I told her I was really your half-sister.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just thought she would have felt better believing you told her some truths.”

“Mm.” He remembers thinking Brienne was so _honest_ , in their first year here, but there are layers to that honesty now. She still doesn’t lie particularly well if she can’t find the right angle for it, but for those white lies, the small and quiet ones that come from that place of genuine decency that she’s somehow managed to keep hold of all these years, they’re filled with so much sincerity that she can’t help but be convincing.

Brienne puts her fingers through the crook of his arm, daringly, though her touch is light enough that she can pull it away should Pia come out of the room. “I tried to bring up the possibility of the child.”

“And?”

“She didn’t—she didn’t really respond. I don’t think it’s the right time for her to consider that option.”

Jaime nods. “Is that all? You were in there a long time.”

“She asked me a few questions about home. What it would be like. I told her what I could, but—it’s been so long. A lot of things can change, even in six years. I felt like I was—that I wasn’t really telling her the truth. It all feels so distant.”

 _There are so many ways to lie to a person_ , Jaime thinks, but doesn’t say. “The Centre—Goodwin—they’ll help her adjust,” he states, more to convince himself than Brienne, and the words feel like dust on his tongue. What would be the point of teaching Pia their language, of settling her into her own apartment, of buying her the right clothes for the climate? What would be the point of all the things the Centre provides for assets lucky enough to be exfiltrated? None of it would be _hers_ , not really. Not the language, not the apartment, not the clothes. And she would be alone through everything.

“I said goodbye. To Goodwin,” Brienne says, softly.

He forces his thoughts away from Pia. “How did that go?”

“I’ll be sad to lose him,” she replies, honestly. “Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again?”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime tells her, but she shakes her head. He knows it isn’t his fault. It feels like it is, though. 

“I should go back home.” Brienne stands up from the stairs, and he follows suit. “I’ll sweep Pia’s apartment tomorrow. Is there anything in particular I should look out for?”

“I have a drawer with some clothes, and there’s a toothbrush and some toiletries in the bathroom. But that should be it.”

He sees Brienne peek over his shoulder at the closed door of the bedroom. Then, she lifts her hand to his jaw, and closes the gap between their lips. It is the most honest thing he’s ever known.

“See you tomorrow night?”

_Tomorrow night. After Pia—_

“Yes.”

Brienne turns to go, but Jaime grabs her wrist.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

 _Everything_. “Nothing. Just wanted to say I love you.”

She glances up the stairs to the bedroom door again. She kisses him again. She tells him she loves him too. She leaves.

The next day, Goodwin comes bright and early. They’ll depart, all three of them, once it gets dark. Tyrion hasn’t appeared all weekend—Gods, they’ve hardly spoken besides that first meeting—but Jaime supposes there’s nothing for his brother to do here, since all the arrangements have been made. Goodwin is still their handler until he steps on that plane with Pia tonight.

There’s just one more thing left to do—they have Pia sign a simple letter of resignation, which Jaime will post to the department tomorrow. It won’t hold up long, they expect—she’s a responsible person, and she would have given the department the proper amount of notice. Not just disappear without a trace, with her apartment left largely intact. She would have told her parents if she was going to make such a huge decision, and her parents won’t know anything about it when they’re finally contacted. They’ll only know that she married a nice man recently, a man named Josmyn Peckledon. But the department will soon realise that man doesn’t exist. Or if they find any record of him—besides the marriage license—they’ll also find that he was actually born sixty years ago, and died at the age of forty-seven. Long before Peck had ever met Pia.

He spends the rest of the day with Pia in the bedroom. There’s nothing much they can say, but his presence is the only comfort he can give her. There had always been this lightness between them, Jaime realises, a lightness that has completely evaporated over the past few weeks. The lightness wasn’t comfortable—it couldn’t ever really be comfortable when he was pretending to be someone else—but there had still been something undemanding in the time he spent with Pia. There was a void that lay beneath it, and he can’t say he’ll miss it, exactly. Yet he had appreciated that lightness while it was still there. It’s gone now.

After the sun sets, they make their way to Goodwin’s car. Pia almost collapses against Jaime on the way out the door, and he thinks he might have to support her all the way to the street. But she straightens her back, tightens her grip on her suitcase, and strides out the door. That might be the only strength she can muster right now, and he will let her have it.

At the airfield, everything is dark. The pilot spots their car and starts up the plane before they’ve even had a chance to get out. Jaime extends his left hand towards Goodwin, and the older man takes it in a strong grip, a thank you and goodbye in the form a simple handshake. “Take care of her,” Jaime says, and Goodwin nods firmly.

Then, he kisses Pia, kisses away her tears, and tells her that he loves her one more time, tells her that he’s sorry ten more. He tells her to be safe. He’s not sure if she can hear him over the roar of the engine, but that’s all Peck has for Pia, at this final hour.

He watches the plane as it ascends into the night sky.

Alone, he drives back to the safe house; he is meant to leave Goodwin’s car there for the Centre to deal with in whatever way. When he arrives, Brienne is waiting in their car outside the house, ready to bring him home.

Back in their bed, Jaime lets Brienne hold him—almost cradle him—and they stay that way for a long time. Awake, together, silent but for the sound of their breathing. Brienne combs her fingers through his hair, again and again. He should feel more relieved, shouldn’t he? No more Peck, no more Pia. But he doesn’t. There will be another man for him to be, soon enough. There will be another person to lie to, to sleep with, to kill.

On Monday morning, Jaime sits down with his family for breakfast. He looks from Myrcella, to Tommen, to Pod, all seated around the dining table, giggling over buttered toast and scrambled eggs. The twins are trying to tell Pod an elaborate story; from what Jaime can tell, the story isn’t making very much sense, but the boy listens to them in rapt attention regardless. Pod is good with them that way.

It’s as if nothing has changed at all. It’s as if he hasn’t just sent off someone he had used for years—someone he had _married_ , just so he could keep using her—never to be seen again. Everything feels _normal_ , even though there’s never been such a thing as _normal_ , not for Jaime. But this is a normalcy that’s gossamer thin, one that seems to drift in and out of existence. He wishes it wouldn’t. He wishes it would stay.

Jaime looks at Brienne then, sipping quietly from her cup of coffee. She is smiling softly at the children, and it is something so warm, so grounded, that he can’t help but reach over and intertwine his fingers with hers. She turns her head towards him, meets his eyes, lets him lose himself in her gaze. His _wife_. His _children_ , beside her. He wishes the world would shrink to them—just them, at this dining table—and stay that way forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I would love to say it goes uphill from here, but I just revised my outline and it really doesn’t. Things are gonna keep crashing down on them until I get them where I need them to go (which might take another… ten chapters…). I’m going to try to balance things out with softer moments and a strong JB relationship as usual. The next chapter is definitely going to be all conversations and thinking and stuff like that, but with another big surprise attached.
> 
> I can’t find a link to the fantastic scene of Philip removing his disguise in front of Martha, but here’s [Philip telling Martha she will be leaving for Russia](https://youtu.be/WblqJO6KLvw) in 4x07, from which I lifted some lines. Also, here’s a little bit of [Martha in Russia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYzffwTDz4E) in 5x13.
> 
> Thanks to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/) for reading this chapter!


	21. Echoes

Life goes on.

Except life begins to feel quite different for Jaime.

For the month after Pia’s departure, there are no new missions for either of them, beyond the most basic one-off assignments. Jaime still meets with his other active agents, and keeps up the pretence of going into the office, at least while the kids are at school. That is all.

Tyrion doesn’t say anything about this lull, the couple of times they meet with him. But Jaime thinks it is his brother’s way of giving them some time to—

Gods. _Time_. Without Pia, it feels like he has so much _time_. He isn’t sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, it is more time than he’s had in years to spend with Brienne and the kids. On the other, it is more time than he’s had in years to _think_. To think, to feel guilty, to feel relieved, to feel guilty about feeling relieved.

Tyrion tells them that Pia is safe, settled. Jaime has a sense that it will be the last they will ever hear of her, and he tries to think of that bit of information— _safe, settled_ —with comfort, rather than dread. There’s so much they will never know about Pia’s life. And so much they can’t know now, about Counterintelligence. With Pia gone, they have no source inside the department, no clue about the status of the internal investigation, no sense of the missions being conducted by the other side. They’ll have to redress that at some point, Jaime is fully aware. But that’s all a matter of chance, and opportunity. It’s not something with which he can fill his time.

Information has been trickling in about Hyle Hunt too—or rather, about how he is just one small cog in a very big machine—but not enough for the Centre to be particularly alarmed. Brienne and Pod continue to meet him and his daughter occasionally, though Hyle seems to have finally realised that he isn’t getting anywhere with Brienne. She tells Jaime that she doesn’t mind Hyle’s company, as an acquaintance. And she doesn’t want to deprive Pod of a friendship. The mission goes on, just like everything else. Jaime has no part in it. It doesn’t take up any of his time.

At first, Jaime merely floats along—it is a form of grieving, he supposes, though for whom or what, he isn’t certain. He can’t say that he’s looking forward to receiving the next big assignment, but he doesn’t much like this mode either, this emptiness. He’d thought, the morning after Pia left, that he’d be so much happier if it was just him, and Brienne, and the kids. He’d thought he would feel free. But he doesn’t quite know who he is, without the missions. With all this time on his hands.

It doesn’t seem right. Surely there is something he can _do_ —something _else_.

So, within the space of this month, Jaime starts searching for that something else. It’s just small things, mostly—things like running more often, sometimes with Brienne, sometimes Pod. He resolves to learn how to cook more than just the one good soup, even if he keeps making a mess of the kitchen in the process, which results in lectures from Myrcella, of all people. He helps the kids with their homework, all three of them. The twins are only in first grade, but it isn’t anything like the education he received growing up, and he feels as if he’s learning too. With Pod, he has to admit that he feels quite lost—at the boy’s age, Jaime was already being sent out into the field, not writing book reports and solving algebra problems. But Pod is clever enough, and sometimes he just needs someone with whom to talk things through. Jaime can do that passably.

Perhaps the thing that steadies him most of all is sparring with Brienne again—almost as often as they used to in the early days. Each session, he feels his blood thrum in his veins, roar in his ears; savours the heat of their shared skin, shared limbs, shared sweat, shared breaths. He wrestles with her, clings to her on the floor of the garage, against the wall; wrestles and clings to her later, in a not-so-different way, in their bed. Something has shifted in how he’s been touching her lately. Jaime is faintly conscious of a sense of desperation, a desperation to be inundated with everything Brienne, to push everything else to the edges of his mind. He knows she’s noticed too, because she’s been giving him these looks of wonder when he lifts his head from between her thighs, or small yelps of surprise at the intensity with which he kisses her in the kitchen in the mornings, when he’d just kissed her in bed not long before. There’s a tinge of worry in her too, some concern about this change, but also a kind of disbelief that he could want her even more than before. Jaime thinks he is a fool for not wanting her this much from the first night they moved into this house.

Oh, and of course, there is the cat.

Jaime notices it timidly exploring their porch one morning, just as he’s about to leave for the office. It’s a stray, or at least it has no collar; it’s not a kitten, but small and thin enough that it might be mistaken for one. He thinks it is black at first, but realises when it walks into the sunlight that it is an odd brownish colour. Its green eyes look at him in shock when he opens the front door, and it scoots off seconds later. He tells Brienne that evening, and she sighs and agrees with a small smile that he can attempt to feed it. But he doesn’t tell the children yet; doesn’t want any of them getting disappointed if the cat doesn’t come back. Tommen especially.

The next morning, after Brienne has sent the kids to school, Jaime puts a bowl of water and a plate of boiled chicken at a corner of the porch. He periodically looks out the window to see if it’s appeared again, but there is no sign of it for the rest of the morning. Then, just when he thinks it might not come back, he spots it pawing gingerly up the stairs. It sniffs at the chicken curiously for a few seconds, before tucking in with voracious bites. Jaime quietly steals out of the door while it’s in the midst of its meal, and sits on the bench behind it. It glances back at him, but this time, it doesn’t panic and run. Just keeps eating.

By the time Brienne has returned with the twins, the cat is already curled up on Jaime’s lap, fast asleep. He puts a finger to his lips to stop them from spooking the animal in their excitement, but can’t help but grin at Tommen, who looks fit to burst.

And so, they have a cat. Tommen names it— _him_ —Bear, for the brown of his fur, and in hopes that he’ll grow big and strong under their care. He introduces Bear to each of his twelve toy cats, including Boots, which still sits on Pod’s desk. Bear alternates between confusion and indifference at his artificial brethren. Still, he curls up with them—and Tommen—every night. The twins begin leaving their bedroom door open a crack, just so Bear can head off to meow pitifully outside Jaime and Brienne’s door at an ungodly hour of the morning, having identified Jaime as his primary source of food. It’s like clockwork—Bear’s mewls, his paws scratching at the door; Brienne groaning and smothering her ears with a pillow; Jaime groggily rolling out of bed to feed the creature. Then, he chooses between heading out for a run, or heading back to bed to wrap his arms around Brienne, depending on his mood.

Running. Cooking. Homework. Sparring. _Brienne_. Cat. The occasional mission or meeting. That’s how it’s been for the past month or so. Jaime has only just gotten used to it—even started _enjoying_ it—when Tyrion tells them:

“There’s someone I want you to meet.”

* * *

Another day, another safe house. It seems they’ve seen the inside of one too many in the past couple of months. The one at which they used to meet Goodwin (Brienne feels a twinge of sadness at the thought of him); the one where she met Tyrion for the first time, where Pia stayed before she left; another one after that, meant for their regular meetings with Tyrion. And now this one.

As she and Jaime sit down on the couch to wait—they’ve arrived earlier than planned—Brienne observes that this place seems cosier than all of the others. It feels almost as if someone lives here, albeit someone with very few worldly possessions. A deliberate choice by Tyrion, she bets, for this particular conversation, though the man himself won’t be present this evening.

She tucks herself into Jaime’s side, and thinks of what Tyrion had told them. _There’s someone I want you to meet_ , he had said. _Well, two people—I suppose you could call them the prototype for the Programme._

Brienne shared a look with Jaime then. That was the first time either of them had heard of such a thing. Yet according to Tyrion, there had been a _prototype_ , years before the Programme even came into existence. _Ten years_ before the Lannisters themselves even existed. Two officers had been sent here undercover—they were already married, but there had been no plans for them to live as such, since it wasn’t meant to be a long-term assignment. At least, not until the wife found out she was already pregnant.

When word reached the Centre, and found its way to Tyrion, he had suggested to the General that the officers be permitted to have the child, to build their family here. What better way to infiltrate the enemy state? And the longer they stayed—they even had another child—the more Tyrion could use their experiences as a blueprint, to shape and formalise the Programme as Brienne and Jaime knew it.

Tyrion had framed the meeting merely as an introduction between officers, for the possibility of future collaboration. But Jaime had asked, _why?_ And Brienne followed with, _why now?_ Tyrion replied with, _I thought it might be helpful for you. Help you feel less—isolated._

They had no response to that.

Then Jaime had asked: _When they came—it was—after. Do they know who I am? Do they know—about Targaryen?_ Brienne could hear some bitterness in his voice, and some anxiety too. It had been a long time since they’d spoken about it, but Brienne knows all too well how a tarnished reputation, a misplaced infamy, could damage a person. Tyrion nodded slowly. _The official narrative. I’m not sure about the—hearsay._

So they would have _that_ to contend with as well.

The door opens just then, and Brienne and Jaime stand up from the couch. From the hallway emerges a man with brown hair, almost down to his shoulders. His beard is flecked with grey already, though he can’t be more than a few years older than Jaime. At his side is a woman with auburn hair, her eyes ice blue, her skin like porcelain. Brienne thinks she looks almost regal, even in her casual turtleneck and jeans, her coat slung over one arm.

“I know you,” Jaime sneers at the man. “Haven’t seen you in almost twenty years. I thought you’d died.”

“Jaime!” Brienne scolds.

“Oh, look at him, Brienne. He already thinks I’m beneath contempt.”

It’s true. The man is doing nothing to hide his judgment. Brienne wonders how Tyrion could have thought this was a good idea. (She plucks up the courage to ask him, when they next meet. Tyrion simply shrugs and says, _they’d have to meet at some point._ )

The woman extends her hand to Brienne. “Catelyn Stark. Nice to meet you.” She grasps the man’s elbow with her other hand. “This is my husband Ned.”

Brienne grips Catelyn’s hand firmly. “Brienne Lannister.” She tilts her head towards Jaime. “My husband Jaime.”

Jaime shakes Catelyn’s hand—there is a slight frostiness to that too, so Catelyn must know of Jaime’s past—as Brienne shakes Ned’s. Jaime holds out his hand to Ned, almost as a challenge, and Ned takes it reluctantly. Brienne holds back a sigh, and sits down on the couch once more. Jaime won’t want to speak about Targaryen, she knows, even if he could. She’s not sure Ned would believe him either.

The conversation that follows is stiff and awkward. They can’t say much about their missions, so they talk about the most mundane details of their lives: how long they’ve been here, what neighbourhoods they live in, how they cope with schedules, what Jaime and Brienne might expect in the future as the children grow up. And so on. Ned and Catelyn do have a business of their own, on top of the work. Brienne can’t imagine how they manage it; a small part of her wonders if Jaime would be better or worse off with a job, considering how he’s been desperately occupying his time lately. Catelyn says it was easier, back when they first started—the missions weren’t as frequent—but it’s become a struggle now, even with older, more independent children.

The children—at least they can speak freely about them. “Robb, almost sixteen, and Sansa, thirteen,” Catelyn offers, and Brienne replies in kind with, “We have twins, Myrcella and Tommen, close to seven. And a foster son. Pod, just turned fifteen. He’s—he’s an agent too.” She doesn’t have to hide that.

“One of ours?” Ned looks intrigued.

“No. Another agency’s.”

“And he’s staying with you?”

“Long story,” Jaime says, shortly.

“What’s that like?” Catelyn asks. She seems intrigued too. “Raising a child that way?”

“We make it work,” Brienne replies. “We’ve been training him, but he doesn’t do too much fieldwork. He’s still young, still has to go to school.”

Catelyn glances tentatively at Ned, who nods. She straightens her back, and speaks again. “We’ve been thinking about—it’s been suggested that we—start training Robb.”

“ _What_?” Jaime is all tension beside her, Brienne can feel it. She puts a hand on his thigh.

Ned looks at him sharply. “Is that a problem?”

“We don’t—we’d never bring our children into it,” Jaime asserts. Brienne too is alarmed by the idea, but she can’t seem to form words. She keeps her hold on Jaime’s thigh.

Ned’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It is our duty to serve the Cause, and if this is what the Centre has asked of us—”

“You would put your children’s lives in danger—”

“Aren’t you doing the same with—what’s his name again? Pod?”

“We didn’t have a _choice_.” Brienne feels compelled to defend their decision. “The alternative was worse.”

“This is the life we _chose_ ,” Ned retorts, his voice level but commanding. Brienne has said similar words before, to Jaime, and she feels a shiver travel down her spine. “These are the risks we take for the Cause. With us to guide them, it is the safest possible way.”

“You’re _insane_ ,” Jaime seethes.

“I believe it’s called _loyalty_.”

Brienne has to stop herself from wincing. She remembers calling Jaime _disloyal_ all those years ago, before he revealed the truth about Targaryen. She knows he won’t take a comment like that lying down.

“Are you implying that we’re _not_?” Jaime hisses, darkly. “I may be younger than you, _Ned_ , but when I say I’ve given my whole life for the Cause, it’s the fucking truth, from the day I was born.” He lifts his prosthetic. “Lost my hand for it, too. Can you say the same?”

Ned opens his mouth, and Brienne finds herself afraid of what he will say—she thinks, oddly, of Ronnet Connington drunkenly spitting _Kingslayer_ from the trunk of their car—but it is Catelyn’s voice that pierces through, clear and cutting. “We will all agree that we have different approaches to parenting, Jaime.” Brienne notes a hint of disapproval in her tone nonetheless. “It is an option we are considering, that is all.”

There is not much else to say after that.

In the car on the way home, Jaime says, quietly: “You think it’s ludicrous, don’t you, Brienne?”

“We agreed,” she mumbles back absently. “We won’t bring the children into it.”

Jaime sighs. “He was right about Pod. He’s ours too, isn’t he? In some way? And we’re doing just what they intend to do with their son.”

“Pod wouldn’t be with us if we didn’t.”

They’ve always tiptoed around the subject—what would happen with Pod. He doesn’t _belong_ to them, not really. He has his own country, his allegiances. He will have to leave someday. They can’t just give him a normal life.

Brienne is struck by a sudden, terrifying thought: perhaps there is nothing normal at all about the life they’ve given Myrcella and Tommen. She—she has to pull over. She brings the car to a stop by the side of the road.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime asks, and puts a hand on her arm.

“We’re giving the kids a good life, aren’t we?” she says. Her eyes don’t leave the steering wheel. “Do you think they—”

“We _are_. They’re happy.”

“How would we _know_?” Her voice cracks as she says this. “Between the two of us, how would we know what a happy childhood looks like?”

“Brienne—we’d _know_. We’d know because—every day, we’re trying to do better. Better than what we had.”

She looks over at Jaime. There’s something earnest in his eyes, but haunted in his face.

“We won’t bring the children into it,” she repeats. An invocation, as much as a promise.

Jaime just brings his palm to her cheek.

(Beyond the rare mission, Ned and Jaime don't cross paths again over the next few years. Brienne, however, meets Catelyn every now and then. She has done well enough with just Jaime to talk to, and Goodwin for a time. Still, it’s nice to have someone else, even if Catelyn seems to expect Brienne to confide in her about Jaime. There’s nothing to confide; Brienne says only good things. If they can’t tell the truth about Targaryen, then at least she can tell the truth about the husband she knows.

One day, just before they’re about to part ways, Catelyn grips Brienne’s hand. “I know we’re not supposed to do this, Brienne. And it’s a lot to ask but—could I have some way of contacting you?” There’s a strange nervousness to her, something Brienne would never have thought she’d see in Catelyn, who is always so composed. “Not for us, but for—if anything happens to us, I want the kids to have someone to turn to.”

“Won’t the Centre take care of them?” Brienne replies, confused. She ignores the implications of Catelyn’s statement, of _if anything happens to us_.

Catelyn pauses, her hand still gripping Brienne’s. “Just in case,” she says, eventually.

Brienne can only give her a slight nod. “I’ll have to discuss it with Jaime.”

She does, later that night. He’s uncertain about revealing this information, though they know the chances of Ned and Catelyn betraying them are slim to none. The bigger question is whether it could fall into the wrong hands.

The next time they meet, Brienne gives Catelyn a book, one with a bookmark sandwiched between pages seventy-four and seventy-five. On these pages, a handful of characters have been underlined in pencil—subtle enough to go unnoticed. It’s not their address exactly, but it should be enough information for someone who goes looking for it. And the book itself is something that can be hidden in plain sight. Catelyn thanks Brienne quietly, and promises to keep it safe, for her children’s eyes only. If anything happens.

 _If anything happens._ Brienne doesn’t want to think about what will become of Myrcella, and Tommen, and Pod, if anything happens. She doesn’t want to think about why that book, with its bookmarked pages and underlined characters, needs to be in Catelyn’s possession. After all these years, there are boxes that still exist in Brienne’s mind. She puts the book in one of those boxes, and shuts it away.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Ned and Catelyn (surprise again) are based loosely on a couple that Elizabeth and Philip are friends with. I won’t link to that storyline at all, because it’s a major spoiler. They’re going to disappear for a bit, but they’ll be back in some form later on. If it wasn't clear, that last bit was meant to take place as a kind of aside—I'm snapping back to the original timeline next chapter.
> 
> *Edit: I forgot to say when I first posted, yes they only have Robb and Sansa because they can’t do 5 kids as spies. That’s too many kids.
> 
> Yes, I’m aware I already wrote [a ficlet about a cat called Bear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848634/chapters/49785764). But the bear hadn’t appeared in this fic yet, plus I was trying to find random domestic things for Jaime to do, and settled on giving them a cat. Tommen deserves real one!
> 
> Thanks to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) for reading this through!


	22. Definitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: **trigger warning** for attempted suicide in this chapter (not for any of the main characters). There are no detailed descriptions, so I won’t be adding it to the tags, but it does affect the characters deeply.
> 
> Secondly, just wanted to apologise for the delay. This chapter got pretty heavy and I wanted to make sure I handled it sensitively, and then I had some real life stuff that got in the way in the past couple of weeks. At least this is one of the longest chapters I’ve written so far; hope it’s worth the wait!

For a spy—even one still in training—Pod is _anxious_.

Brienne doesn’t hold this against him. It’s understandable given his youth, and the volatility of the first fourteen years of his life. And she knows how much he’s improved after more than a year spent with them—supported by the relative stability of their home, the guidance from herself and Jaime, even the adoration of the twins. 

Yet she sometimes wonders if this anxiety is something so fundamental to Pod’s being that he might never shake it.

It’s true that he functions well enough in an environment constructed to play to his strengths—the mission with Hyle, for example. But so much of what they do is contingent on putting themselves in situations that are at the very least uncomfortable, if not downright dangerous. They need to be able to hide or control their anxieties, if they can’t eliminate them altogether. It isn’t to do with his stutter—there are ways he can use that to his advantage. It’s the fact that Brienne can always feel even the lowest hum of Pod’s nerves.

So when Pod opens the car door after he comes out from his language class, and Brienne feels that hum, she doesn’t think much of it. When Pod sits in the passenger seat and says, “Sh-she didn’t turn up today,” she doesn’t think much of it. “Oh,” Brienne simply replies. She hadn’t seen Hyle or his car, but she just assumed he was on one of his work trips; she didn’t think much of it. “Well, maybe she’s just sick.”

Pod doesn’t respond. It’s then that Brienne realises that low hum seems more like—like a _crackle_. She looks down to see his hands are tight fists in his lap.

“Pod, what’s wrong?”

He bites his lip, hard—it’s one of the anxious habits that he’s yet to break—but stays silent.

“Pod,” she repeats, firmly. “Is there something I should know?”

Pod lifts those tight fists to where his seat belt crosses his chest, and grips the strap there. “I’m… I’m worried about her.” He twists the belt around his hands. “But she, she said I couldn’t t-tell anyone.”

“About what?”

“She’s b-been—upset. Missing home, a _lot_. I think she’s being b-bullied at school too. But her dad, he d-doesn’t _listen_.” All these words tumble forth from him, as if he’s been wanting to say them for a long time, but only just figured out how. “I th-think she’s—she t-told me that she’s thought about, about doing something to herself.”

“Doing—”

“ _Hurting_ herself. So that he’ll _know_.”

_Shit._

Brienne starts the car immediately. “We’re going over to their house right now. _Hells_ , Pod, you can’t keep secrets like that.”

“But she’s my—my friend,” he defends himself weakly. “She made me promise not to t-tell.”

“I’m not saying you can’t be a good friend to her. But these kinds of promises—they can’t come before her safety. They can’t come before the Cause.”

Friendships, they happen—with willing agents, with oblivious assets. Brienne is guilty of it, and Jaime too. But Pod needs to learn that—

“Which is it?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

“Her—her safety, or the Cause?”

Brienne‘s voice catches in her throat. “It’s—it’s _both_ ,” she manages. She can’t formulate a more coherent response than that. In this case, yes, it’s _both_. A girl’s life is at stake. Even if they took Hyle out of the equation, Pod should have told Brienne about it, or at least some adult that would be equipped to help her.

But within Pod’s question, there are a hundred others. If he had told her earlier, would it have been as a child seeking help from his guardian? Or as a spy providing information to his handler? Are they concerned for her welfare because she’s an innocent life, or because she’s their link to Hyle? Because they need the girl alive to preserve that link? Because they might be able to use her vulnerabilities against her father?

Brienne knows full well that they aren’t above exploiting the situation in that way. She thinks Pod knows it too, even though he asked in the first place. If it ever comes down to it—if they ever need to apply some kind of pressure to Hyle, for the sake of Cause and country—they would do what it takes. They would do their best not to endanger the girl’s life, but if they could use this information to manipulate Hyle in any way, if they could still use it in the future, they _would_.

(Where would they draw the line? Would they put her in danger, if they had to? They’ve done worse things, though perhaps not to someone so young. If it ever came down to it—if they had to measure the value of her life in terms of its worth to the Cause—)

Brienne pushes down on the accelerator—to drive faster, to muffle the hundred questions. She feels the pedal beneath her foot, the steering wheel in her hands, the seat belt across her chest. She tells herself to think only of their destination, of arriving there as soon as possible.

At the next red light, she turns to Pod. “If any of your friends ever tell you things that make you concerned, you should let us know. Okay? This goes for anyone. That’s—it’s the best thing you can do for them as a friend.”

“Okay,” he agrees, after a long while.

They make the rest of the drive in silence—in the hum and crackle of their nerves.

When they pull up in front of Hyle’s house, he’s just back from work. They meet him—confused by their sudden appearance—on the path leading to his front door. _We just wanted to check on her_ , Brienne quickly explains. _She didn’t show up for class._

 _She’s not feeling well today, that’s all_ , Hyle replies, dismissively. _She stayed home from school._

The girl is still breathing when they find her.

It’s chaos—Hyle clutching his daughter, Brienne calling the ambulance, Pod on the verge of tears, nobody knowing exactly what to do but wait out those long minutes until the paramedics show up. Pod picks up a note from her dresser—it’s not long, but it’s an explanation—and reads it, shows it to Brienne first with trembling fingers, then to Hyle. Hyle glances at it, snatches it from Pod’s hand, and stuffs it into his pocket. It goes with them—father and daughter—into the ambulance.

(They never see that note again. Much later, Pod tells Brienne that he still remembers every word.)

They arrive home long past dinnertime. When Jaime opens the door, he looks relieved for a brief moment, then frowns.

“Did something happen?” he asks, running his hand down Brienne’s arm.

Brienne steps forward, wraps herself in him, whispers the answer in his ear. She feels his body stiffen, his arms tighten around her.

“I’m—I’m going to bed,” Pod murmurs. Brienne pulls away from Jaime to see the boy heading towards the stairs.

“Wait—” Brienne calls. “Pod, wait.”

He turns. When she puts a hand on his shoulder, he attempts to stand straighter beneath her touch. It feels like he’s flinching instead.

“It isn’t your fault,” Brienne says gently.

“I sh-should have told you—”

“You should have. But it doesn’t make it your fault.” She cups his cheek with her hand. “I know that’s hard to believe right now.”

Pod only looks at her solemnly. He turns away from her hand, and continues up the stairs.

Jaime comes up behind her and slips his arms around her waist. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. She leans back into him, aligns her own arms with his. “She told him—she told him she was thinking about it. She wanted him to keep it a secret.”

“He should have told us.”

“He knows.” She wants to tell Jaime about the conversation in the car, about the hundred questions. But not now. She is so tired.

“And the girl—she’ll live?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” She feels some tension leave Jaime’s body. “That’s—that’s good.”

A door opens upstairs—Pod’s room—then another. The twins. Faintly, they hear Myrcella and Tommen say goodnight to Pod. A door closes.

“Dinner?” Jaime offers.

Brienne shakes her head. She can’t eat. She tries to recall the hints of colour she saw in that pale face, pale lips. _Still breathing_ , she reminds herself. She thinks of Hyle holding his daughter.

Jaime nods. “Bed then.”

They make their way up the stairs, only to find Tommen sticking his face through the banisters. Myrcella is sitting cross-legged beside him.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Jaime scolds lightly.

“We wanted to say goodnight,” Tommen protests. “What’s wrong with Pod, Mummy?”

Brienne reaches through the banisters to touch Tommen’s arm. He’s there; solid; alive. “He didn’t have a good day, baby,” she replies softly.

“He looked really sad,” Myrcella echoes.

“It happens sometimes,” Jaime says, as he reaches the top of the stairs. “Alright, back to bed with you.”

Tucking them in takes much longer than usual. Brienne sits by Myrcella’s bed, runs her fingers through her daughter’s hair, traces the curve of her ear, her temple. _There; solid; alive._ She just needs to be sure.

Back in their bed, it doesn’t take long for Jaime to doze off. But hours pass, and Brienne barely sleeps. She thinks of Hyle holding his daughter. The only thing that stills her restless movements is Jaime’s right arm around her waist, his stump on her stomach. She thinks of Hyle holding his daughter. She closes her eyes and listens to Jaime’s breathing. In, out. In, out. This rhythm usually goes some way to steady her on sleepless nights, but tonight it’s no use. She thinks of Hyle holding his daughter.

Carefully, she lifts Jaime’s arm; he grunts, but doesn’t wake. She climbs out of bed to go check on the twins. She just needs to know they’re _there_. Solid. Alive. Still breathing. She opens their door—

The beds are empty.

Everything disappears around her.

She stumbles out of the twins’ room just as Jaime emerges from their own.

“What’s going—”

“They’re not there—”

Jaime’s eyes widen. “What do you mean they’re not—” He runs into the room. “What—”

“Myrcella?” Brienne calls out desperately. “Tommen?” She turns to Pod’s room, and flings open the door.

They’re _there_. Curled up together in Pod’s bed. All three of them, fast asleep—Pod, pressed up against the wall to give the twins enough space; Tommen, resting his cheek on the rise and fall of Pod’s chest; Myrcella, pillowing her head on Pod’s outstretched arm. Bear is at their feet. The cat wakes and gives Brienne a few disinterested blinks, then rests his head back on his front paws, and closes his eyes.

They look so peaceful.

“Let them sleep,” Jaime says, reaching past her to close the door. “They’re fine.”

“I thought they—”

“I know.”

Brienne lets Jaime shepherd her into their bedroom. She doesn’t climb into bed, even after he closes the door behind them. Just stands there. She thinks of Hyle holding his daughter. She thinks of what it must take for a child to feel like that is their only option. She thinks of what it might take for her children to—

She thinks of losing them.

“I thought—” she whispers, and stops. Completing that sentence feels like the most unbearable thing in the world.

Jaime pulls her into his arms, stands there with her, and this, _this_ is what finally breaks her. Here, in his embrace—it’s the one place where she can fall apart.

So she does.

 _I shouldn’t_ , she thinks, or says, she can’t be entirely sure. _I’m not allowed to. I have no right._

 _You can. You are. You do_ , Jaime responds, with his body, or his words, she can’t be entirely sure. She doesn’t believe him. But he’s the only one who understands, who knows all her truths—the good, the terrible, even the _disloyal_. He is the only one around whom she can break—around whom she can give herself permission to do so.

So she breaks. She sobs quietly into his cheek, mumbles incoherent phrases into his neck, his shoulder. He presses soft kisses to her cheek in return, carries her tears on his lips to her neck, her shoulder.

When they return to their bed, exhaustion finally overcomes her. She sleeps; wakes. Another morning, another day like all the ones that came before, at least the ones in the past six years or so. _Still breathing._

In the afternoon, she brings Pod to the hospital for a visit, gives him time to speak to his friend alone. While he is in the ward, Brienne sits outside with Hyle. He tells her that he’s thinking of moving. _Been thinking about it for a long time. For work. I spend too much time travelling to—and now that she’s—_

His mind seems made up. She puts a hand on his wrist.

 _A change of environment will be good for both of us_ , he concludes.

Brienne doesn’t know if this is true. A change of environment was ultimately what broke the girl. But Hyle won’t go back to their country, she’s sure, and things here clearly aren’t sustainable either. She can only hope Hyle will take his daughter’s pain seriously from now on.

“Leave it,” Tyrion instructs her later. “In fact, encourage him to go. We have someone else there on him already.”

“His daughter—”

“The officer has been informed of her situation.”

 _Her safety, or the Cause?_ It’ll be someone else’s responsibility now.

“She’s fragile,” Brienne says, uselessly.

“Our plans don’t involve her at this point,” Tyrion replies. It seems to be some attempt at reassurance. “In any case, there’s no demand from the Centre for additional information. Our officer will simply maintain the connection with Hyle Hunt.”

Brienne knits her brow. “Why? Do we have the intelligence we need already?”

He nods. “There’s no evidence of sabotage, so far. Seems like he’s consulting on a project to develop a strain of what they’re calling ‘super wheat’. Ridiculous name, if you ask me.”

“‘Super wheat’?”

“It’s supposed to be pest-resistant. Very hardy.”

“To sell at a high price, I’d expect,” she scoffs.

“Well. In theory, if the project is successful, the wheat will be used as aid for countries that experience periods of famine. That might include some of our allies.” He looks at her pointedly. “Even us.”

“A political tool, then.” It can’t be altruistic. Not entirely.

Tyrion’s expression turns something unreadable. “You know,” he says, tapping his fingers on the table, “the lines that we draw. They’re rarely as rigid as we like to think.”

Brienne fixes him with a stare. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Things change. Lines can shift, or blur, or be redrawn. Even erased entirely.”

She says nothing in response. She still hasn’t figured out how best to approach Tyrion’s cryptic, sweeping statements—it’s as though he is flaunting a knowledge she cannot access, and she has no desire or patience to decipher his meaning. Yet his words inadvertently bring to mind one of those hundred questions: _where would they draw the line?_ Strangely, this doesn’t make her think of Hyle holding his daughter, though the image will continue to haunt her for a long time. She thinks, instead, of how she came to this country with a line drawn between herself and Jaime, and how she can’t imagine being divided from him now. She thinks of how she used to worry that the line between herself and the twins would never dissolve. And she thinks of how they chose to draw a line between the kids and their work—how they can never quite decide on which side of that line Pod falls.

* * *

On paper, there is nothing about Pod that should remind Jaime of his first son.

First off, they look nothing alike—nothing in their faces or physiques that might seem even remotely similar. Besides, Pod is younger by a few years, and kinder by a mile. Less assertive, more intelligent; less reckless, more thoughtful. Soft where the other is hard, humble where the other is arrogant. At least, that is Jaime’s assessment, based on what little he remembers. His son had belonged to Cersei, and even more so to his father. He was never really Jaime’s.

Admittedly, it had taken Jaime much longer than Brienne to warm up to Pod. Part of it was all the concerns he had laid out to Brienne in the beginning, when she had first proposed taking the boy in. Part of it was just not knowing how to treat Pod as anything other than an agent, even though it is Brienne who has borne the bulk of the responsibility of training him. The majority of her interactions with Pod have been defined by their work, yet she possesses a deep compassion that endears her to the boy, a compassion that doesn’t come naturally to Jaime. Despite the fact that Brienne is only fourteen—no, _thirteen_ years older than Pod, she’s found it easier to consider him one of her own, if only until he is recalled by his agency.

It was with Brienne’s gentle prodding that Jaime began spending more time with Pod, whether to train him or otherwise. In that time, he had to overcome his fear that Pod would turn into—or already be—the person Jaime was when he was younger. He had to overcome his fear that Pod might turn into something more like his first son, and that Jaime would be responsible for that happening.

Now, of course, he knows that both of those outcomes would have been impossible. There is nothing in Pod’s nature that could have allowed either of those fears to be realised, even if Jaime had been as strict, and demanding, and ruthless to Pod as the General had been to him. Jaime knows he is none of those things, if only because Brienne tells him so.

These days, when Jaime sees his whole family together—Brienne, the twins, and Pod—he has the sense that he was given the chance to do things over. Do things _better_.

(Some days, he allows himself to believe that he’s made good use of that chance.)

But Pod—Pod isn’t permanent. He isn’t supposed to be. Perhaps that’s one more reason why Jaime had found it difficult at first to welcome Pod into their lives. _Pod isn’t permanent._ The expiration date isn’t known to any of them, not even Tyrion, but it exists nonetheless.

It exists. It is also growing more nebulous by the day.

Since Hyle and his daughter moved, Pod has yet to receive any instructions from his agency on the next mission—whether they want him to continue his training with Jaime and Brienne or not. Pod’s handler hasn’t called for a meeting in a long while, far too long for Jaime to feel entirely comfortable. He can tell, too, that Pod is treading water. Without a mission, without any expectation of the next assignment, Pod simply has to live a life that would be considered normal for most other teenage boys. Other boys might relish this, or even find it boring. But for Pod, it is neither of those things. It is a life that has become a limbo.

Already quiet, Pod has grown even more so. It is the uneasiness, the lack of purpose. It is the lingering guilt about the secrets he kept; how he might have prevented things from getting to that point of almost-no-return, though the girl had survived. It is the worry that he let Brienne down, though she assures him there is nothing to forgive.

It is also, perhaps, the feeling of having overstayed his welcome. Jaime isn’t sure about this part, but he has his suspicions, because Pod _apologised_ to him one night while they were washing up after dinner.

“What for?” Jaime asked.

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” he tries to explain to the sink.

Jaime felt caught off guard by the whole thing. He could only respond with, “It’s a waiting game, that’s all. These plans, these missions, they take time.”

Pod didn’t seem convinced.

When Jaime mentioned the exchange to Brienne, she only sighed, and their conversation had ended there. He hasn’t had the heart to properly broach the topic with her yet, but they have to discuss the prospect of Pod leaving, sooner rather than later. He knows she will find it difficult to let Pod go. He remembers how she had cried in his arms after what happened with Hyle’s daughter—how she cried at the thought of losing their children—and Pod’s departure would be a loss of a child too. He sees how, like Pod, she’s been quieter than usual. She puts her everything into the work as always, into the missions that come after Hyle. Buries herself in all of it.

After Pia’s exfiltration, Jaime had sought out his wife—her company, her body, her touch. It isn’t Brienne’s natural inclination to comfort herself in this way, even after their years of marriage. Instead, she closes in on herself. She needs this sometimes, Jaime knows—this shell, this void. But other times, he can tell she wants to climb out of it, and just doesn’t know how. She can talk to Jaime, and she does, but sometimes a mother’s fears just _don’t leave_. They can’t be spoken or reasoned away. It’s up to Jaime to listen to those periods of wordlessness, to anticipate her need to be soothed. Brace her with his hand on hers. Calm her with a long embrace. Distract her with a well-timed kiss—on her cheek, on her lips, on her… everywhere.

But they don’t discuss what will happen with Pod.

Not until they’re forced to do so.

One evening, after the twins have gone to bed, the three of them are sitting in the living room. The nightly news is on, but Jaime is barely concentrating; he has a mission to run on his own tomorrow, and he’s running through all the details in his head.

Then, he hears Pod suck in a breath.

Jaime looks up at the television. By now, the news anchor is midway through their fourth or fifth story, a story about events happening on the other side of the world. It’s a story of upheaval, but it must feel so distant, so inconsequential to the average viewer in this city—something at which to shake their heads and click their tongues, to forget as soon as they go to bed, perhaps even as soon as the report is over.

But for Pod, this fourth or fifth story isn’t distant, or inconsequential, or forgettable.

 _A state of emergency has been declared…_ _successful military coup… the collapse of the previous regime…_

“Shit,” Jaime spits. So that’s why things have been so quiet with Pod’s agency. He doubts there’ll be even a semblance of a partnership with the Centre now, with this level of instability. Even when things settle— _if_ they settle—the new government might not be quite so partial to the Cause.

He looks over at Pod. The boy just gapes at the television screen. Jaime sees the images reflected in Pod’s eyes—men in power, men who have fallen from it. War.

“Pod—” Brienne places her hand on his arm, but can’t seem to say anymore than that.

“What—what happens now?” Pod whispers.

“I don’t know,” Jaime replies, honestly. “Hopefully we’ll hear some news soon.”

The boy nods, then stands up from the couch. “I’m going to bed,” he announces.

“Pod,” Brienne repeats. Again, she says nothing further.

Pod just heads for the stairs.

When they’re back in their bedroom, Jaime tells Brienne that he’ll send a message to his brother tomorrow.

“Do you think—” she starts, then bites her lip.

Jaime brushes a finger across her cheek. “Do I think…?”

Brienne swallows, then allows herself to say: “Do you think the Centre will let him stay with us?”

“I don’t know.” He isn’t sure whether the Centre will take kindly to them expending their resources on Pod, if Pod’s agency is in disarray. Even if they allow it, it might just be more of the same limbo for Pod. Then again, perhaps the Centre would prefer for them to keep him close, since he knows who they really are. “Maybe if we—we could try justifying his usefulness—”

“He’d be one of ours?”

 _One of ours._ She doesn’t specify if she means as an agent for the Centre, or as a child—a Lannister— _permanent_. Perhaps it’s both. But the Centre will surely have expectations of Pod, expectations that might put him in harm’s way, and there may only be so much they can protect him from.

Jaime’s loyalty to the Cause, and his loyalty to his family—when he was younger, he had always considered them one and the same. It was what his father had taught him. After coming to this country, this allegiance became a means of safeguarding this existence he had built with his wife, with his children. But he thinks now of the Starks, and how they are intent on training their son. He thinks of how he and Brienne agreed to keep the twins from this life. With Pod, with the missions the Centre might assign him, the Cause could come into conflict with their duty as Pod’s family. As—as his—as his _parents_.

But this is Pod’s best case scenario.

Jaime tastes a bitterness on his tongue.

“We’ll talk to my brother,” he sighs.

Brienne nods, and swallows again. “I—I want him to stay. If that’s possible,” she says, haltingly, as if afraid of those words, of some kind of selfishness they might reveal. In this life, they very rarely get to ask for what they want. Even something like this—wanting to care for a child, to accept him into their home for good—can feel _selfish_.

“I know.” He brushes her cheek once more. “Me too.”

As it turns out, it is Tyrion that contacts them first. They receive a message in the morning that they are to bring Pod to their next meeting. This takes some reorganising—they can only have the meeting after Pod is done with school, and with all three of them out of the house on a weekday afternoon, the twins will have to go to a friend’s. It’s been so many months since they’ve had to manage their schedules in this way, and Jaime realises how much they’ve come to depend on Pod to keep an eye on Myrcella and Tommen. Once they came to trust him, it became much easier to work around all of their missions and meetings, when there could almost always be one person taking care of the kids even if two are otherwise engaged.

The twins would miss Pod very much, if he had to leave.

When the day of the meeting comes around, they pick Pod up from school and head straight for the safe house. Tyrion is already there, of course, with a bottle of wine as usual, and only two glasses, both filled. Jaime partakes in it with his brother occasionally, but Brienne always declines. All three of them sit around the table—Jaime next to Tyrion, and Pod and Brienne on the opposite side. Tyrion tips his head at him and Brienne, then looks at Pod.

“Hello Pod. Is it okay if I call you Pod? Or would you prefer Podrick?”

“Pod is, is fine.”

“Good. It’s nice to meet you, finally. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Pod looks at Tyrion curiously. “You have?”

“Jaime’s told me some.”

Jaime sees Brienne glance at him upon hearing that, while he takes a sip from his glass. He knows she stays guarded with Tyrion—there’s something about him that disconcerts her—but he’s shared a little with his brother about their lives. Just bits and pieces, nothing that would make Brienne truly uncomfortable. His relationship with Tyrion isn’t the same as it used to be, doesn’t accommodate the same level of intimacy. It’s not just the years of separation. It really hadn’t been the same since—since that incident. Jaime is grateful that there’s some warmth to be shared between them still.

“So,” Tyrion exhales. “As we all know, things in Pod’s home country are… not ideal at the moment. His agency has declared a freeze on all intelligence activities here while the domestic situation is being resolved, and who knows how long that will take.”

“I’ll have to go b-back?” Pod asks, apprehensively.

“Oh no, nothing like that. They won’t be recalling their agents—too much trouble to go through the process of infiltration again at a later date. You’ll be… dormant, I suppose is the word for it. But your case is particularly delicate because of your… living arrangements. The partnership with the Centre is on hold for now. In theory, you should not be the responsibility of our officers.”

“But—but where will I go?”

“Nowhere,” Jaime and Brienne answer at the same time.

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “Well, Pod does know who you really are. We couldn’t possibly let him loose on the world.”

He had said that with some humour, but Pod panics anyway. “I’d—I’d never reveal that information!”

“That may be so, but we do need to ensure the safety of our officers.”

Brienne grips Pod’s shoulder. “So he can stay? The Centre will allow it?”

“If he does, the Centre will have certain expectations—”

“No—” Jaime interrupts. The fervour in his own voice surprises everyone, including himself. “He’s… dormant, you said.”

Tyrion sighs. “Brother, you know there’s only so much I can do. You’ve half-trained him already, and he’s a resource we can tap into.”

Jaime almost flinches at Tyrion’s phrasing. _A resource. He’s a fifteen-year-old boy, for fuck’s sake._ “Fine. But he’s not ready. We get the final say on any missions until he’s eighteen at least.”

“His agency might—”

“His agency might be our enemies within a year. Like you said, he knows who we are. He’s _ours_ now.”

“ _Like I said_ ,” Tyrion pushes back, “if he’s one of our agents, the Centre will have _expectations_.”

Exasperated, Jaime grasps for more rationalisations. “With—with him around to watch the children, it frees up more time for our work. Surely that will make the Centre happy.”

He said that with a callousness he hadn’t intended. But he doesn’t look at Brienne, or Pod. Only waits for Tyrion’s response.

Tyrion nods solemnly. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s the best they could have hoped for.

After the meeting, Tyrion stops Jaime in the hallway. “You’ve changed, brother.”

“For the better, I hope,” Jaime replies, trying to keep his tone light.

Tyrion laughs softly. “A decade ago, I don’t know if you’d have pressed for that boy to stay with you. Our cousin certainly wouldn’t have allowed it.”

Jaime tenses at the mention of Cersei. “She wouldn’t have allowed Pod to step through our door in the first place,” he says under his breath. He looks at Brienne waiting for him at the door; she smiles at him, and he smiles back. “Brienne is a good influence.”

“Ah, family life. It suits you,” Tyrion proclaims, a little theatrically, then pauses for a second. “A family besides ours, I mean.”

They share a look.

On the drive back, Jaime feels as if a weight has lifted off him. _Pod is permanent_. He didn’t think it would feel this good. But Pod doesn’t seem to be happy at all—he’s silent in the backseat. No, not just silent— _sullen_. Frankly, this has Jaime feeling a little hurt. He looks over to Brienne in the driver’s seat, and nods back towards Pod. She darts her eyes to the rear view mirror, then back at the road. _Later_ , she mouths.

They pick up the twins on their way back. Myrcella and Tommen clamber into the backseat with Pod, blissfully unaware of how his future had hung in the balance until this afternoon. When they arrive home, the whole family walks towards the house, the twins first, then Brienne, then Jaime, with Pod trailing behind. Brienne unlocks the door first for the twins, who run in eagerly, and steps inside herself, leaving the door open for Jaime and Pod.

As he walks up the stairs of the porch, Jaime hears Pod’s footsteps stop behind him. He turns to see the boy standing there.

“Is everything okay, Pod?”

Pod rocks slowly on the balls of his feet for a few moments. Finally, he asks, “Why are you… let-letting me stay?”

“What do you mean?” Jaime glances back at Brienne, who is still standing in the doorway. She lifts a palm, telling Jaime to wait, to give Pod time.

“I’m not—I don’t think I’m that g-good at, at all of this. Are you letting me stay because—because I’m—”

Then it hits Jaime.

 _He’s not ready. We get the final say on his missions_ , he had told Tyrion. Perhaps Pod thinks Jaime considers him incompetent. _With him around to watch the children, it frees up more time for our work_ , he’d tried to justify. Perhaps Pod thinks that is all he is good for.

Jaime motions for Pod to come towards him, and the boy steps feebly up the stairs. “Pod—I—those things I said back there—” Jaime struggles, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

He’s not sure what to say next, or if what he wants to say next will be wrong somehow. Now Pod is just _staring_ at him. Oh, Jaime feels like he is making things _worse_. He looks at Brienne helplessly, but she only nods at him to go on.

Jaime sighs, and rubs the back of his head. “We want you to stay. And we want you to be safe.” He looks at Brienne again. This time, she actually mouths, _go on_. “What I mean is—” Jaime continues, “you’re—we consider you part of our family. We wouldn’t let you—we wouldn’t _abandon_ you.”

Pod is still quiet. He’s staring down at his shoes now.

Then, he does something he’s never done before.

He rushes forward and— _hugs_ Jaime.

“Thank you,” Pod says into Jaime’s shoulder.

Jaime looks at Brienne for the third time, still helpless. She only laughs and forms a circle with her arms, miming an embrace.

Gingerly, Jaime brings his arms around Pod.

Alright, then. They’re a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I never named Hyle’s daughter. All my options were silly so I tried to get away with just not naming her. In The Americans, it’s actually ‘Pod’ (Tuan) that encourages the son of ‘Hyle’ (Alexei Morozov) to attempt suicide in order to get attention from his parents. Obviously I wasn't going to make Pod do that. 
> 
> I made up all the plot to get Pod to stay. Just thought it’d be nice to lean into the found family trope (also dad!Jaime warms my heart).
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)! Comments here on AO3 or asks/messages about my fic on Tumblr are always appreciated :)


	23. Perspectives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _lot_ of notes this chapter, bear with me:
> 
> This is the last group of chapters before the concluding arc, and I’m going to focus on JB running missions together (which we haven’t seen a lot of), and how that brings them on the journeys I need them to take before we get to the finale. These journeys involve a lot of moral grey areas, which they (and you, and I) will need to struggle through in order for the finale to feel earned.
> 
> I’m going to break my rule of putting my references at the end and give you a head's up here, just in case any of you have a strong distaste for GoT Season 7 and would rather be mentally prepared. This is a mash-up of Game of Thrones 7x03 – ‘The Queen’s Justice’; The Americans 3x09 – ‘Do Mail Robots Dream of Electric Sheep?’; and The Americans 5x11 – ‘Dyatkovo’. If you have any idea what the similarities are between certain scenes in those three episodes, then you know what’s coming.

“What do you think?” Brienne says, handing the binoculars to Jaime. “I think it looks like her.”

She watches him as he brings the binoculars up to his eyes, and peers through the windshield at the elderly woman walking down the street. “I don’t know,” he mutters, after a few seconds. “Could be her, but I can’t be sure.”

Brienne follows his gaze as he glances down briefly at the photographs on the dashboard. She’s been studying those pictures for days; she’s practically memorised the curve of the woman’s chin, the sweep of her hair. “These photographs are decades old,” Jaime says. “How does the Centre expect us to prove they’re the same person?”

“I think it looks like her,” Brienne repeats, looking back up, and holding up her camera. She presses the shutter button, advances the film, presses the button again. “We can compare the photos later. I’ll have Pod develop the film tonight.”

“I thought we weren’t involving him in this mission,” he says.

“We’re not.” Brienne doesn’t take her eye off the viewfinder. _Click._ Advance. “And he won’t know who she is. But I’d rather he get the practice in the darkroom. We’ve discussed this, Jaime.”

It’s been months since the Centre gave its permission for Pod to stay, and almost two years since he first moved in. They can’t formally adopt the boy—can’t leave any sort of paper trail—but they’d long come to think of Pod as theirs, and had made some difficult decisions to protect him while still appeasing the Centre. He’d been assigned a few jobs here and there, jobs that Brienne would characterise as ‘errands’ rather than ‘missions’. In order for these jobs to stay at the level of ‘errands’ for as long as possible, Pod had to nurture some skills beyond his talent with languages—especially the kind of skills that would keep him useful in less dangerous roles. So, his training continued, in its own way.

The elderly woman has approached her car now, and is loading her groceries into the backseat. “What do you think the Centre wants to achieve with her?” Jaime sighs.

“Verify her identity.” _Click._ Advance. _Click._ “That’s all Tyrion asked us to do.”

“By taking photos of a seventy-year-old woman from a car across the street, and playing spot-the-difference with the headshot of a woman who can’t be more than twenty.”

“It’s not like we can walk up to her and _ask politely._ ” Brienne sets the camera in her lap as the woman gets into the driver’s seat.

“Gods, I’d feel better if we _could_. ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’” he affects an apologetic tone, and puts his prosthetic to his chest, “‘we’re so very sorry to bother you, but by any chance, did you happen to massacre some soldiers a really long time ago? We’re a little hazy on the details, but if you could—’”

“Jaime.”

He turns to her. “You know _exactly_ what this so-called verification will lead to, Brienne.”

She does. If this woman is who the Centre thinks she is, then she is a war criminal who has been roaming free for the past forty-odd years. She won’t ever stand trial, be convicted, serve any sentence. It will be up to the Centre to mete out its own form of punishment.

“Tyrion said the Centre already has proof. You heard him. They traced her medical records—”

“So you trust my brother now.” He gestures to her with his left hand as he says this, fingers still wrapped around the binoculars.

Brienne reaches around to grab the camera bag from the floor behind her seat. “I trust that he gives us accurate information from the Centre,” she says, as she packs the camera away. “We have to trust _that_.”

“Fine.” Jaime opens the glove compartment, and places the binoculars inside. “Even if it is her, what’s the _point_? Vengeance? She has one foot in the grave already—”

“She betrayed us, Jaime. She was one of us, and she was responsible for—”

He shuts the glove compartment tight. “Decades ago, in a war that killed millions.”

“And if we could get some justice for some of those millions, shouldn’t we do that? The men she killed in those villages—boys, _our_ boys.” Brienne picks at the strap of the camera bag. “And she gets to live in peace, have a family of her own. It’s not _right_. Just because it was decades ago doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be punished for those crimes.”

“Justice,” he huffs. “Justice is all fine and good. I’d just rather get justice if we had a bit more certainty, that’s all. If she’s not the right person…”

“I know.” She passes the bag to Jaime, who puts it at his feet as she starts the car. “We’ll gather what intelligence we can.”

A week or so after they’ve handed in what they have—which even Brienne has to admit doesn’t feel like much at all—Tyrion informs them of the Centre’s directive.

“Just like that,” Jaime says gravely.

“Just like that. The Centre has made their decision. You’re to proceed.”

“We gave you barely _anything_ ,” Jaime hisses. Brienne places her hand in the crook of his elbow, but he keeps going. “What _concrete_ evidence do we have to prove that she’s the same woman? What evidence do we have that she even committed these killings?”

Tyrion is silent for a moment. He seems as calm as always, but Brienne notices something strain in his jaw. “You know what we have. We’ve punished people for lesser crimes. With less proof.”

“Doesn’t make this right.”

“Have you grown a conscience now, brother?” She can hear a threatening note vibrate in Tyrion’s voice. “After all this time?”

Jaime grips the arm of his chair. “Don’t,” he warns. “Not now.”

“Not in front of your _wife_ , you mean?”

_What?_

Brienne jerks her head towards her husband first, then to his brother. Suddenly, she recalls the hesitance—the _tension_ in their embrace, back when Tyrion first appeared.

Jaime stands up abruptly. “We _agreed_.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Tyrion raises his glass, and sips his wine. It might have been a larger sip than usual.

“Alright. We’ll get it done,” Brienne says, a sorry attempt at mediation. She doesn’t even know _what_ she’s trying to mediate.

Jaime doesn’t say another word to his brother before they leave, though there’s not much left to discuss anyway. He is silent the whole drive home, beyond the tapping of his fingers on his thigh. She wants to ask, she _does_. But she knows he won’t tell her. Asking will only remind her that secrets still exist between them.

Some words surface in her mind as she fixes her eyes on the road stretching before her. Words that, a long time ago, overflowed from a tub of cooling bath water. _It wasn’t just Targaryen_ , Jaime had said. _There were things I had to do, that my father had me do, over the years. Even to my own family._

She hadn’t known about Tyrion back then.

Later that night, she leans against the bathroom door and observes Jaime brushing his teeth.

“What?” he asks, after he spits into the sink.

“Should we talk to her?” Brienne says, after a few moments. “See if she admits anything?”

Jaime rinses his mouth with water, spits again. “We could. Won’t change the mission.”

“No.” She looks at her feet, flexes her toes. “I suppose it won’t.”

He puts his hands on the counter. “You don’t think we have enough to prove it’s her, do you? You _know_ we don’t have enough.”

She lifts her head to Jaime now, watches his reflection in the mirror staring down at the sink. “The Centre says—”

“The Centre will say what they want to justify their decisions.” He turns the tap on, splashes water on his face, wipes it with his towel. Hangs the towel back on its ring.

“That’s not fair, Jaime.”

“Isn’t it?”

He pushes past her into the bedroom, starts unstrapping his prosthetic as he goes. Brienne catches up with him, grasps his right forearm, gently pushes his left hand away. “So anytime we question their decisions,” she whispers, fingers working the straps, “then what?”

“We do our jobs,” Jaime replies. The prosthetic comes off, and he takes it to his bedside table. “It’s what we always do.”

In the end, they don’t even have to break into the woman’s house. She lives in a quiet neighbourhood, follows a schedule like clockwork. All they have to do is pick one of the nights she comes home after dark; wait at the side of the house as she fumbles with the keys to her front door; watch to make sure there are no passing cars, no nosy neighbours; sprint towards her just as she gets the door open. Brienne presses one hand tightly over the woman’s mouth, while her other hand jabs the barrel of her gun, of the silencer attached to it, into the woman’s back. Jaime holds the door open, closes it behind them as soon as Brienne pushes the woman, struggling uselessly against Brienne’s grip, into her house. They’re inside in a matter of seconds. The woman lives alone—her husband dead two years, her children grown, her grandchildren already in their teens—so they don’t have to worry about company.

 _She’s lived a full life,_ Brienne thinks. _A life she doesn’t deserve. A life she deprived of so many others._

They bring her into a room towards the back of the house—the dining room, it turns out—and sit her down at the table. “Don’t even _think_ about screaming,” Jaime says, while Brienne still has her hand over the woman’s mouth, her gun to her back. “Or you’ll have a bullet in your spine before you can even make a sound. Do you understand?”

The woman nods, and lifts both hands in the air as soon as Brienne loosens her hold on her. The purse she was holding in a tight grip falls into her lap. “Who are you?” she exclaims. “What do you want? Money? I have money in my purse—and in the drawer over there—”

That voice is thick with the accent that Brienne worked so hard to train out of herself. This woman doesn’t even bother to hide it.

“We don’t want money,” Brienne says. She circles round the woman’s chair to stand before her, keeps the gun pointed at her head.

“Please—my son will be home soon—”

“No, he won’t.” Jaime pulls out the chair next to the woman’s, and sits down himself. “He doesn’t live here. Mace, right?”

Her eyes widen further. “How, how do you know—”

“We know who you are,” Jaime replies. “Olenna Tyrell, born Olenna Redwyne. Or should I say, _assumed the identity_ of Olenna Redwyne a little over forty years ago, just before you married a Luthor Tyrell. That’s not your real name, is it?”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Olenna Tyrell isn’t your real name,” Brienne cuts in. “You lived by another name for more than twenty years.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m Olenna Tyrell—look, look in my purse.” She flicks open the purse in her lap, but before she can reach into it, Jaime grabs it from her and throws it aside. Its contents spill onto the dining table. “My driver’s license,” Olenna pleads, then points towards the stairs. “My passport, it’s upstairs in my bedroom, I can show you my passport too, I can get that for you.”

Brienne steals a glance at Jaime. He may have been uncertain about the woman in private, but he seems unmoved now. “We know you took that name only after the war,” he says.

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“You thought you could leave that life behind you, didn’t you? All these years.”

“ _What life?_ ”

“Where were you born?” Brienne demands.

Snivelling, she tells them. The sound of it is familiar—the vowels and consonants of a past life—but it doesn’t match the information they have on her.

Brienne moves a little closer. “You’re lying.”

“What do you _want_ me to say?”

“The truth.”

“That—that _is_ the truth. I don’t, I don’t know what else I can tell you!”

“Really?” Jaime stands, and walks towards the phone mounted on the wall nearby. “Why don’t we call Mace? Maybe he’ll know the truth. He doesn’t live far away, does he?” He removes the handset, and puts it to his ear. “We’ll tell him to come over, as soon as he can. We found your door open, found you unconscious. You’ve come to, but you’ve told us to call—”

“He won’t believe you—”

“Maybe your granddaughter will answer the phone. Margaery, right? Or my partner here, the one holding the gun to your head, she could head over—”

“No!”

“Tell us the truth then.” Jaime slams the handset down. “And we won’t hurt your family.”

Olenna looks rapidly from Jaime to Brienne, then back again. Slowly, she brings her hands to her face, and wipes her eyes, her nose. Then, she sits up a little straighter; her hands, shaking just a minute ago, are perfectly stable now. A woman transformed. “No masks,” she says, quietly.

Brienne stares at her. “What did you say?”

“You’re not wearing anything to hide your faces. Those wigs look _ridiculous_ , by the way, and you’ve done nothing to alter your features.” She sits back in her chair, and looks up at Brienne. “But you’re not afraid that I’ll be able to identify you, are you? Not with what you’re planning to do to me.”

“So it _is_ you,” Jaime says, walking back to his chair. Brienne can hear the disbelief in his voice.

“I always wondered when you would catch up with me. Our country—they don’t let things go, do they?”

 _Things._ As if it was just some minor offence. “You know what you did,” Brienne snaps back. “You think we’ll let that go? What you did to those boys—”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Not this again,” Jaime almost laughs. “You’ve just admitted—”

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Olenna tuts. “Of course, I was born with the name you think I was born with. I was born in the village you think I was born in. But I’m not who you think I am.” Olenna clears her throat. “Do you think I could get some water? There’s a jug and glasses on the table right there.”

Jaime narrows his eyes. “ _Now_?”

“Yes, please,” Olenna replies levelly. “My throat is feeling a little dry. You can have some too, if you like.”

Brienne watches as Jaime stands, still staring at Olenna, and walks towards the jug. He pours a single glass, brings that back over, and sets it on the table beside the woman. She lifts it to her lips and takes a sip, then looks up at Brienne. “Aren’t you tired, dear? Pointing that gun in my face.”

“What did you mean, _you’re not who we think you are_?” Brienne retorts, ignoring Olenna’s question. She holds the gun steady. “Did you or did you not kill those boys?”

“I did,” she says. There is no glee in her, but no trace of remorse either. “But I served the Cause too, you know. I _fought_ in that war. And the enemy forces—they killed my family for it. Made me bury them with my bare hands. My _parents_.” A tear rolls down Olenna’s cheek, and she wipes it away with a finger. “Then they liquored me up, put a gun to my head and another in my hands and forced me to kill those boys, as you said. Forced me to kill others too. That’s what you want to punish me for, isn’t it? The things I was made to do in that war?”

“That’s your excuse?” Brienne adjusts her grip on her gun, thinks of how she always tries to do the most decent thing even in the worst situations. “You were _made_ to commit those horrific crimes?”

Olenna glares at Brienne in a way that can only be described as derisive. “How old are you?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“I know you’re young enough not to have seen a battlefield. Your partner here—” she casts her eyes down at Jaime’s prosthetic— “maybe he has. But you? What do you know of _war_? Of the depth of human suffering?”

“Enough,” Jaime growls. But Olenna pushes on, doesn’t even shift her gaze from Brienne. “Oh, indulge an old woman. You fight for the Cause, don’t you?”

Brienne lifts her chin a little higher. “Yes,” she answers.

“And why do you do that?”

“To make the world a better place.”

Olenna laughs contemptuously. “You really believe that?”

“I do.”

“You believe killing _me_ will make the world a better place?”

“I believe in justice for my countrymen.”

Olenna laughs again, looks at Jaime as if he is in on the joke too. “‘Make the world a better place.’ ‘Fighting for justice.’” She looks back up at Brienne as her laughter fades. “That’s what evil people tell themselves when they do evil things.”

Brienne sucks in a breath. “And what about you? What you did wasn’t evil?” she bites back.

“It was. I admit it. I tortured myself over it for _years_.” She leans back in her chair. “But now—now I never lose a night’s sleep. I was _forced_ to do those things to my own people.” She turns her head to Jaime again, then back to Brienne. “But you—you choose to do these things. You are choosing to kill me tonight, are you not? Am I your enemy? Are we at war now?”

“Some would argue that we are,” Jaime says.

Olenna only smiles. “And you look at me like I’m a monster. If there’s a monster in this room, it isn’t _me_.”

Jaime slams his fist on the table before Brienne even has a chance to form a thought. “That’s _enough_.”

“Touched a nerve, didn’t I? And yet _she still hasn’t pulled the trigger_.”

Brienne adjusts the grip on her gun yet again, tries to ignore the ache in her arms. She could so easily shoot her, and yet— “You say… you say you fought for the Cause. And now you live here, in the enemy state—”

“We shared the same enemy once. In that war, and in others.”

 _Lines can shift, or blur, or be redrawn_ , Brienne hears Tyrion in her head. _Even erased entirely._ She pushes those words from her mind. “This country is our enemy _now_. How they live—how their society functions—it goes against everything we stand for. Have you abandoned the Cause so entirely?”

“Oh no, my dear.” Olenna takes another sip of water. “I still believe in it, in some ways. But the Cause—the Cause is just _ideas_. It doesn’t change how people act—people who have power. They will still do terrible things to hold onto that power, no matter how pure or honourable the ideals they use to justify it. That’s what war taught me.”

She glances at Jaime again. “Look at you,” she says, almost kindly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Brienne looks at Jaime out of the corner of her eye, but whatever it was that Olenna saw in him, she can’t see it now. “Whether or not that’s true,” he replies, coolly. “Not much to be gained from discussing it with you, though, is there?”

“What better person to discuss it with? What better guarantee could you have that the things you say will never leave this room? Your partner here will pull that trigger eventually.”

Brienne turns her head towards Jaime when she doesn’t hear a reply. He is staring at the dining table, at the contents of Olenna’s purse scattered across it. He reaches over and picks up a bottle of pills, and looks at the label. Then, he twists the cap open, and spills the capsules onto the table.

“Shooting me would be faster,” Olenna says, having guessed his intent. “Perhaps less painful for me, assuming your partner is good at what she does. Or more painful, if that’s what you prefer.”

“She is very good. She could kill you with her bare hands, if she wanted to. But this,” he taps his finger on the empty bottle, “I believe this will be less difficult on your family. Less… messy. Fewer questions, too.”

Finally, Brienne lowers the gun, and steps a little closer to Jaime.

“You might be right.” Olenna takes a few pills in her hand. “That’s very kind of you.”

“We were never told _how_ ,” Jaime replies. “Only that it should be done. Consider it a courtesy to a compatriot.”

Olenna throws the pills in her mouth, swallows a mouthful of water. Gathers more pills in her palm. “I’m sick already, you know. Sick enough that this will not come as a surprise to my family. Though I understand you have a job to do.” She throws, swallows, gathers again. “You need to be assured of my demise tonight, I expect.”

They don’t respond; only watch Olenna for a while. Soon, Brienne feels compelled to ask another question, perhaps in part to stave off a sudden nausea rising within her. “If you were forced to do those things—” she tries to keep the tremors out of her voice— “if you still believe in the Cause—why didn’t you return home? Why did you run?”

Olenna sighs. “Everyone was in pain. Destroyed. Angry. Looking for someone to blame.” She throws more pills into the back of her throat, takes another gulp of water. “See how unflinching they are, even after all these years, sending you to me. Unfor—” she begins to stumble over her words, “ _unforgiving_.” She gathers more pills into her palm. “Be—besides, after the war—I found myself in another country. I met my, my husband, and… and he wanted to take me back here.”

“Romantic,” Jaime comments.

One corner of Olenna’s lips lifts upwards. “Not really. He was… kind enough, but he was an oaf, to tell you the truth.” Throw. Swallow. Gather. “To think I—” she grips the pills into her fist, and shakes it weakly at Jaime, “I married him twice!”

Brienne frowns. “What do you mean?”

“We… we got divorced after the first few years. He had this feeling—that I was keeping s-secrets from him. I was, of course. About—about the war. And he couldn’t take it. Could… Couldn’t take not _knowing_.”

“Then what happened?”

Olenna shrugs, or makes an effort to. “We’d already had—had Mace. Somehow, we found each other again. We no longer had su… sugar in our eyes, if you know what I mean. None of that, ‘Why c-can't you be the person I want, instead of the… the person you are?’ stuff.” She slumps an elbow on the table. “He knew I had… my secrets. And I, I knew he was a fool. But I suppose… I suppose I loved him, regardless. It stuck, the sec—the sec—the second time around.”

Brienne shifts her eyes from Olenna to the table, where only a few pills remain. Olenna tries to sweep them into her hand, but can’t quite manage it; it is Jaime who gathers them for her, this final time.

“Do you have a… a husband, dear?” she addresses Brienne, once she’s swallowed the last of the pills.

Brienne doesn’t mean to move, but something in her shifts towards Jaime nonetheless. Olenna doesn’t miss that subtle movement, though her eyelids are drooping, and her head threatens to loll to one side. “Ah,” is all she says, and Brienne finds that she is grateful that Olenna only asks: “Chil—children?”

Jaime nods once.

“And this… this is what you… what you do.”

“It is,” Brienne affirms.

Later, when they’ve left via the back door, when they’ve found their way to their car, when they’re making the long drive home, Brienne murmurs into the stillness: “It was her after all.”

“It was.”

 _It was_. When they are back in their bed, Brienne will realise that those are the only two words Jaime has addressed directly to her, and her alone, since they dragged Olenna Tyrell into her house at gunpoint. She will want to ask Jaime if he thinks there was truth in what Olenna said—that she was forced to do all those terrible things, that she had no choice in a time of war. She will want to ask if that should make a difference at all. She will want to ask if there was truth in the other things Olenna said too—the things she said about the Cause. She will want to ask what Olenna meant in that moment she said to Jaime, _you know exactly what I’m talking about_.

But it doesn’t matter, Brienne will realise. No matter what the answers are, no matter what _Jaime’s_ answers are, _it wouldn’t have changed the mission_. Olenna Tyrell was exactly who the Centre thought she was. So they did exactly what the Centre told them to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, I’m sure you hate me right now, but I’m hoping that if you’ve read till this point, you’ll trust me to do right by Jaime and Brienne (and their kids) within the context of this story. There's a lot in this chapter that I'm deliberately keeping buried—Brienne's state of mind included, as well as Jaime and Tyrion's past—which will unfold over the next few chapters.
> 
> This chapter combines [Jaime poisoning Olenna in GoT 7x03](https://youtu.be/90Yk9K3XKTA), with [Elizabeth unwillingly murdering an old woman who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time in The Americans 3x09](https://youtu.be/V5yoUyXH2qw) by um, strongly suggesting to her that she overdose on her own pills. Olenna’s backstory and the whole premise of the mission was partly inspired by The Americans 5x11. Basically I created this out of three separate scenes of old ladies getting murdered.
> 
> I took bits and pieces from all three episodes, including quite a few lines of dialogue, especially that whole bit about Olenna remarrying, which I modified based on TA 3x09. It's a very specific reference, but there are some subtle parallels with JB's relationship in this, so I really wanted to weave it in.
> 
> Edit: for the purposes of this fic, the Loras mentioned in Chapter 8 is not related to the Olenna mentioned in this chapter.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)! Comments here on AO3 or asks/messages about my fic on Tumblr are always appreciated :)


	24. Mutations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to admit that I completely forgot I had already written Loras into this story (Chapter 8) when I wrote that Olenna chapter. And then I posted it. And then three hours later I was like… OH MY GOD. So, for the purposes of this story, they’re not related. Just wanted to get that out there if you happened to read this before I edited my notes for last chapter.
> 
> Anyway, on to more moral dilemmas!

Deep down, Jaime has always known there is something monstrous within him.

The things he’s been made to do—the things he’s done, _of his own volition_ —for the Cause, for his country, for his family. His family back home; his family here. Perhaps when he was still a boy, he could have claimed that this monstrosity was forced upon him. But he’s been on this earth for—for close to four decades now. At what point will he no longer be able to claim that he doesn’t have a choice?

Has that point already passed?

Maybe it has. Maybe he failed to notice it because Brienne came into his life. Brienne, who has been sleeping beside him almost every night for the past seven years, who has done monstrous things too—far, far less than him, but _some_ —and she is not a monster. He knows she isn’t. She makes him believe that he isn’t the things he has done, that he is good underneath it all. Because _she_ is.

But it is different, for her. She believes she is serving something bigger than herself. Jaime is selfish; has been for a long time. He continues to do these monstrous things because it is the only way he can be a father. A husband. The only way he can spend every night sleeping beside a woman who loves him wholeheartedly, a woman who will still be there when he wakes up every morning.

 _And you look at me like I’m a monster_ , said the woman who called herself Olenna Tyrell. _If there’s a monster in this room, it isn’t me._

“Jaime!”

He jolts back from his thoughts to see Brienne staring at him from across the kitchen counter. What was he doing in the kitchen again? Was he looking for something—did he want a glass of water? He can’t remember. He feels soft fur wind around his ankles, and looks down to see Bear waltzing off in the direction of the living room.

“You’re back,” he pronounces, looking back up to Brienne, as if her presence isn’t already proof of that fact.

“Are you alright? Didn’t you hear—”

“I’m fine. Sorry. Just thinking.”

Brienne gives him a strange look, but doesn’t pursue it. Instead, she points up the stairs. _Are the kids home?_ she asks without saying a word.

“Pod took the twins to that new arcade again,” he answers, and she nods.

“There was a signal.” She’s come closer to him, softens her voice anyway, though he’s just told her that they’re the only two people in the house. “At Jorah’s site.”

“ _Jorah_?” Jorah Mormont, sent here by the Centre fifteen years ago. Fifteen years at a private laboratory handling infectious pathogens for the government, and he’s never been able to produce anything of significance, at least not in the time they’ve worked with him. “We haven’t seen him in ages. Isn’t he supposed to go through Tyrion?”

“That’s what I thought. I was going to ask you if you received any messages from the Centre here.”

“Nothing. Why would Jorah signal us for a meeting without telling Tyrion first?”

“I don’t know.” There’s a wrinkle in Brienne’s brow that wasn’t there a few moments ago. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

They arrange to meet him at a park on the other side of the city in two days. The meeting itself doesn’t require both of them, but Jorah’s been the subject of some intermittent surveillance by Counterintelligence in the past—not because he was a person of interest in any sense of the phrase, but simply by virtue of the sensitivity of his job at the lab. Without Pia on the inside, they no longer have a reliable source of information about who is being watched, and when. So, they’re both in disguise, and while Jaime approaches the bench where Jorah is waiting, Brienne wanders nearby, observing, ready to signal Jaime if she spots anything suspicious.

“Might be your best look yet,” Jorah deadpans, when Jaime is close enough to be recognised through today’s wig and glasses of choice.

“Nice to see you too,” Jaime replies flatly. It isn’t nice, of course. He has always found Jorah Mormont a tiresome and colourless man, though he is loyal to a fault. Not that his loyalty necessarily translates into usefulness. “Sorry about the… camouflage,” Jaime continues. He might have chosen that word because Jorah’s jacket is practically the same shade of brown as the bench, and the man seems to be blending into his seat. “We’re not sure if or when you’re being watched.”

“What do you mean? You don’t know?”

“My source at Counterintelligence—she was sent back home.”

It’s the first time Jaime’s had to say it out loud in a long while.

Jorah’s eyes widen. “You got her home?”

Jaime gives him a grim nod. He hopes Jorah knows better than to pry.

“She’s from here, isn’t she?” _Great. He’s prying._ “You think she’ll be able to adapt back there?”

Jaime looks away from Jorah, lets his eyes rest on trees in the distance, on nothing in particular. “She’s alive. Free. Better than what would have happened to her here, if she had been caught.”

“Free,” Jorah repeats. And then he follows that with something Jaime can’t quite believe: “Can’t remember what that feels like.”

 _Never thought I’d hear words like that from Jorah Mormont’s mouth._ Jaime looks at Jorah incredulously, but whatever part of the man that was responsible for those words has disappeared back inside him now, and he scrambles to say, “I don’t mean—”

Jaime waves his hand. “Oh, don’t get yourself all tied up in knots. I’m not in the habit of reporting comments like that to the Centre. I’m surprised, that’s all. You’re usually so—” He stops there, not particularly inclined to choose an adjective. His mind takes advantage of this reprieve to fixate on a slight itch on his stump, and he resists the urge to scratch it. “Guess a lot must have happened since we last saw each other,” he finally says.

Jorah just grunts in response, and doesn't elaborate further. “Anyway. They got me on a three-man team once every two weeks, like clockwork. Just so you know.”

“Really?” Counterintelligence only puts surveillance teams on Jorah and his colleagues when something interesting comes through the lab.

“They’re not suspicious of me—it’ll be a lot more than once a fortnight if they were—” Jorah lowers his voice even more— “but the lab just received a sample of a virus. A modified strain.”

There have been a handful of times over the years when Jorah has told them something similar, about pathogens that turned out to be nothing more lethal than the common cold. But there’s a touch of nerves in Jorah’s demeanour today—and there was that thing he said, about not feeling _free_ —

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Jorah continues. “Causes a haemorrhagic fever that liquefies your organs. Makes your blood come out through your skin.”

It sounds so horrifying that it’s almost ridiculous—more ridiculous coming from the mouth of such a dour man. “How long has the lab had it?”

Jorah sinks further into the bench. “A few weeks.”

“A few—” the man is a _fool_ — “ _and it took you this long to tell us?_ You should have sent a message to Tyrion as soon as—”

“I went straight to Tyrion before,” Jorah snaps under his breath. “With something else.”

“What? When?”

“Months ago. It wasn’t quite this bad, but it was bad enough. I didn’t want to—” and then Jorah seems to reassess the wisdom of completing that sentence. “We planned it all out, but things… didn’t go well,” he says instead. “The Centre never received the sample.”

Again, Jorah refrains from elaborating further. Jaime knows better than to force that story out of the man—he has no claim to the details of Jorah’s other missions, even if it’s a mission handled by his own brother. “And you came directly to us this time because—what, because you think we can make things _go well_?”

“No—I don’t know.” Jorah takes his hands out of his pockets, hesitates, puts them back into his pockets again. “I decided to come to you first because… because I want to do the right thing. And I don’t know if telling the Centre is the right thing. Nobody should have this. Nobody _needs_ this.”

It’s not that Jaime doesn’t understand where Jorah is coming from, but the fact is— “This country has it.”

“They might just be making an antidote just in case _we_ use it.” Jorah’s response rings empty between them. “At least, that’s what my lab says.”

“And you trust them over us.”

“Of course I don’t. I know they’re just as likely to weaponise it. But—” his hands are out of his pockets once more, and he runs a palm through his thinning hair. “It doesn’t mean we should _both_ have it.”

Jaime lets out a long sigh. “You don’t know what they’re planning for sure?”

“No. I don’t have the security clearance for that project.” Jorah spots a jogger running towards their bench, and pauses to let him pass. “That’s the other thing—” he says, once the man is out of earshot, “if we decide to go through with it, I’ll need your help to get the access codes.”

Right. Fifteen years at the lab and Jorah has never been able to advance past a mid-level position. They’d gathered some intelligence on how they’d need to get those codes, but they’d never had to act on it. “You just said you don’t want the Centre to know,” Jaime says. “So why tell me any of it? Why set up a meeting in the first place?”

Jorah just looks down to where his hands are resting in his lap. “It’s a big decision to make on your own. I didn’t have anybody else to… to talk to.”

There’s an odd resentment rising in Jaime now. Something about all this—whether to tell the Centre at all, and what they’ll need to do to get Jorah anywhere near the sample—Jorah has made it all contingent on _him_ , and Brienne too. He thinks, unexpectedly, of Aerys Targaryen. How nobody around him had wanted to do _anything_ , until Jaime had—

He casts his eyes towards a low hill nearby, where he can see Brienne strolling along the path. _His anchor._ “The only thing I can promise you is that I’ll discuss it with Brienne first.”

“Okay. That’s more than I thought I’d get.” Jorah must have followed Jaime’s gaze towards Brienne too, because the next thing the man asks is, “How’s the wife?”

“Do we do small talk now?” Jaime scoffs. But Jorah only shrugs, so Jaime begrudgingly says, “Good.”

“How long has it been—six years?”

“More than seven, actually.”

“You’re lucky. Mine left me after three.”

Jaime knows Jorah has been in this country twice as long, but he’d never mentioned this before. He thought the man had been alone since the beginning. “You had a wife?”

“Once.” Jorah pauses for a few seconds again, this time for a woman pushing a baby in a stroller. “She wasn’t—we fought. A lot.”

“One of ours?”

“Mm. Not like you—” not part of the Programme as they know it, Jorah means— “but we came here together. Three years, and she couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want her to leave, but she requested a transfer back home. Heard she’s the mistress of someone much higher up in the Centre now.” He scuffs his feet against the ground beneath the bench, and the sound reverberates in Jaime’s ears. “You’re lucky,” he says, for the second time.

Jorah’s information hangs heavy on Jaime, even after he’s shared all the facts with Brienne. _It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen_ , Jorah had said, and Jaime could tell the man wasn’t exaggerating. But they don’t have time to discuss their options, because they’d arranged to pick the children up at the arcade—they’ve been spending every spare moment there since the place opened—and head out for dinner after. From the car to the restaurant, the arcade is all Myrcella and Tommen can talk about. They take turns describing every game in great detail, even the ones they can only watch the older kids play.

“There’s one that’s set in space, Daddy,” says Tommen, just as their food arrives, “and you have to fly around and shoot all the alien spaceships—”

“And you have to protect the people on your planet from them,” Myrcella adds, “or they get captured and turn into _mutants_ , and then you have to save your planet from them too—”

“And it’s so hard, everyone always dies _so fast_ —” Tommen again— “and we think Pod would be good at it, but he won’t even _try_ it, Mummy!”

“I, I don’t like the shooters,” Pod tries to explain. “Reminds me of—” and then he looks down at his food. Brienne rubs her hand on his back as the twins carry on. The boy recovers soon enough, Jaime observes, but he knows Pod’s memories will return time and again.

“You don’t have to bring them to the arcade if it makes you uncomfortable,” Jaime tells Pod later, when they’re walking out of the restaurant.

“No,” Pod replies, “It’s okay. It’s fun. I just—I don’t p-play the ones that make me think of… of what happened.” The war, he means, the one in his country.

“Okay. Just don’t let them bully you into anything.” Jaime nudges Pod’s shoulder. “They may be half your age, but they’re master manipulators.”

“They’re not,” Pod laughs softly, just as the twins run past them towards the car. Then he adds, with a shy grin, “M-maybe Myrcella.”

“That’s how Tommen gets you,” Jaime warns. “You think he’s so innocent—”

A finger pokes him in his side. “Are you turning our children against each other, husband?” Brienne whispers from behind him, and Pod has to hide a smile.

Dinner—and those subsequent moments, walking to the car—it’s a welcome distraction from the meeting just hours before. Jaime would rather avoid discussing it for the rest of the night, would rather that they’re not put in this position at all. But he knows none of that is possible. Better that they decide one way or the other, and act accordingly.

“What if we focus on getting the codes first?” Brienne suggests, when they’re in the basement after the kids have gone to bed.

Jaime leans back against the wall, and folds his arms. “So we’re going through with it?”

“We don’t—I don’t know. But if we have the codes, we’d be prepared if we decide to go ahead.”

“Isn’t it possible for us to—what if this one time, we just don’t report back?”

She sighs as she shuts the door of their secret compartment, but doesn’t move to shift the washing machine back into place. “Jaime—”

“Jorah said it _liquefies your organs_ , Brienne. I just think we should consider—”

“I know. But they are making that poison for us too, aren’t they? We need to be able to—to defend ourselves.”

Something had shivered in her voice as she said those words, Jaime realises. Something akin to _uncertainty_. “You don’t think that’s true,” he says, with a tinge of surprise at this Brienne—a Brienne dislodged, if only slightly, from the beliefs that have always grounded her. “You don’t think this is _defending ourselves_. You don’t want to do it.”

“I think it’s true that this country has weapons that—”

“ _We_ have weapons—” _Targaryen had—_

“And who has actually used the most devastating ones of all?” she retorts. “ _Not us_.”

It had happened before either of them were born—the bombs. In another country altogether, to stop another war, so they said. It did stop that war. It had taken so many innocent lives too. But—and Jaime has never said this with more conviction:

“If I hadn’t shot Aerys Targaryen all those years ago, we’d have done the same.”

Brienne leans against the washing machine, still slanted to reveal the compartment in the wall behind it. “Jaime,” she exhales. He can’t quite tell if those syllables held only exhaustion, or if there was some deeper realisation in them.

“If we do this, Brienne—what if it makes us the monsters?”

She looks at him sharply. “Monsters?” she asks, the word slipping from her lips, tentative and unfamiliar. Then she seems to remember where she’s heard that before, though it was weeks ago now. “You’re thinking of what that woman said. Olenna Tyrell.”

They hadn’t, in truth, properly spoken about that night. It had shaken them both to the core—Jaime could see it in Brienne in the days after, and he knows she could see it in him too—but speaking about it meant acknowledging it, acknowledging all the implications of Olenna Tyrell’s words. And there were too many of them—he didn’t even know where to begin, and it made something fill his lungs till it felt like they might burst—

Jaime brings both his hands to his forehead, holds them there. He feels the warmth of his flesh hand on his left temple, while his prosthetic cools his right. “We thought she was a monster for doing those things,” he utters, his eyes fixed on the floor. “This could—this could kill far more people than she ever did.”

He hears Brienne’s footsteps as she walks over to him, feels her fingers on his forearms as she brings his hands down from his forehead, feels her own forehead touch his in their place. “If we don’t do this—” she says, her voice hushed, hoarse, “if the enemy uses this virus against our country, and the reason why we don’t have an antidote is because of _us_ —because of a decision we made in this basement—what then?”

Their two choices sink between them, heavy. Countless innocents could die horribly, no matter what they choose to do. Someone in power, in this country or their own—someone else who can afford to keep their hands clean, let those hands touch only pen and paper, come nowhere near the virus itself or the people that might succumb to it—that person could make that decision to turn this virus into a weapon. Jaime doesn’t trust either side not to do such a thing. No matter whether they get the access codes, no matter whether they choose to tell Tyrion. _People will do terrible things to hold onto power,_ Olenna had told them, _no matter how pure or honourable the ideals they use to justify it._ But Brienne is right too—if they choose to withhold the knowledge of a potential weapon, they’re also choosing to withhold the knowledge of how that weapon might be anticipated, countered, neutralised. They could be saving lives, and yet—why does that option feel so _wrong_?

He doesn’t know what to choose, between one monstrous thing and another. He knows Brienne doesn’t either. She always says she strives to do the most decent thing in the worst situations. But in this situation, neither of them know what that _most decent thing_ could be. With Targaryen, it had been clear—kill one man to save thousands, hundreds of thousands. Yet, the night it had happened—the pulling of the trigger, Targaryen’s blood, his vacant stare once all the life had drained out of him—that night haunts Jaime to this day, two decades on.

They might not call themselves monsters. There is a chance, even with the things they’ve done, that they might not be monsters at all. But they live in a world full of them, monsters they can’t control, monsters who control them.

He doesn’t know what to choose. It is one monstrous thing or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Jorah Mormont have a personality? No. Did I stick him in there purely as a plot device? Yes. Jorah is based on [William Crandall](https://theamericans.fandom.com/wiki/William_Crandall), and the core of the dialogue between Jorah and Jaime was inspired by Philip and William’s conversation in The Americans 4x09. Including the whole "liquefies your organs" bit. William did have a wife that left him, but I loosely based that 'mistress' bit on Jorah's second wife Lynesse in book!canon.
> 
> The game that the twins talk about is based on an actual arcade game from the 1980s called Defender. I’ve never played it, but I was looking for something that they could talk about that would also resonate with the plot of this chapter, and when I read the Wikipedia article, I realised it was just too perfect.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	25. Casualties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do note that the Minor Violence tag manifests in this chapter as, um, the mildly detailed description of the disposal of a body. If you want a heads up, it’s the opening to The Americans 3x02, which I’ve integrated into the William Crandall storyline.

_Crack._

She catches that—Jaime’s flinch at the sound. She hears his soft grunt of exertion, of regret. She wants to ask him so many things. _What happened_ , for example. _How did it come to this?_

_Are you okay?_

_Cra—_ “Hold this—” _cra—crack._

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything. She’s not here as his wife. Not even as his partner. She’s just meant to be an extra pair of hands, called in to help him fix a situation neither of them could have foreseen. Act like it’s an entirely unremarkable occurrence.

Donyse lies—lifeless—on the carpet.

It’s dark red, the carpet in this hotel room. There isn’t any blood—she was strangled—but if there _was_ , and if it _had_ stained the carpet, would the colour have made it easier to… to make it seem as if nothing ever happened? Or would they have missed something because of it, something someone else would discover?

She hates that these thoughts cross her mind at all.

(The man responsible stands in the corner, still in shock. _I didn’t mean to_ , he kept repeating when Brienne first entered the room. Yet he did it, didn’t he? It didn’t matter what he _meant_ to do.)

_Crack._

Donyse lies—joints twisted unnaturally—on the carpet.

Those joints were not twisted by the man in the corner. They are being twisted by _their_ hands, hers and Jaime’s, post-mortem— _crack_ ; Jaime dislocates a shoulder—so that Donyse’s body would fit in the large suitcase Brienne brought with her.

He’d called her an hour ago: _I have a lot of files to move. I could use some help._

She knew what that meant.

In truth, Brienne hadn’t much connected with Donyse over the years— _crack_ ; Brienne breaks an arm at the elbow—beyond thinking she was a kind person at heart. They’d only met a handful of times, though Brienne still occasionally wears the dress Donyse bought her, and the shoes too. Donyse is— _was_ —Jaime’s agent, not hers, and she’d alternated between various identities, disappeared for long periods of time. There was the septa, for a while, and the schoolteacher before that, if Brienne remembers correctly, and even something of a minor socialite at one point. Or maybe that was her real identity. Jaime had told Brienne, a long time ago, that Donyse had wanted to be an actress; that was partly how he’d convinced her to join the Cause in the first place. She’d found the work exciting.

Donyse had been the one helping Jaime gather intelligence on Jorah’s lab, and though a decision was yet to be made about whether to notify the Centre about the pathogen, Jaime had gone ahead and informed her that they would be needing the access codes after all. At the time, he thought all she had was an eye on a potential mark—a high-level administrator at the lab. That was all she’d told him before this mission. They had no idea she’d gotten this close to him, long before Jorah even called that meeting with them. They had no idea she’d been carrying on some sort of relationship with him. Him, the man standing in the corner. The man who’s gone and killed her, for reasons Brienne still doesn’t know. She’s just an extra pair of hands.

Brienne stands, lifts one of Donyse’s legs from the floor, prepares to dislocate a hip. She wouldn’t have to break a sweat, usually, but she feigns some difficulty anyway. Jaime waves the man over then, tells him he’ll have to help, and he walks towards them, shaking. Jaime stands back while Brienne and the man grab hold of Donyse’s leg, and then _she_ steps back too, just far enough. In a second there’s a click, and a flash.

“What are you—” the man demands of Jaime, his eyes wild. “You said you’d make this go away!”

Jaime says nothing, simply raises the camera and snaps another photograph, careful to keep Brienne out of the frame. They have proof now, of the man’s involvement in Donyse’s death. If they have proof, they have leverage.

And if they have leverage, then they’ll have those access codes soon enough.

Jaime had told her, one afternoon a couple of weeks ago, about just how close Donyse had gotten to this man. He’d been annoyed by it— _it’s too messy, she shouldn’t have gotten so involved_ —but admitted that it might make the process of retrieving the codes much smoother. In a way, Brienne supposes it _has_ made it smoother—and she hates that _this_ thought crosses her mind at all. The codes aren’t worth Donyse’s life. She wasn’t meant to die for _this_.

They fit her in the suitcase, more ragdoll than body. They zip it up, put it back on the cart Brienne brought with it. All she has to do now is to walk out the door and drag the suitcase on the cart behind her, without straining at its added weight. She’s more than capable of doing so. She leaves Jaime in the hotel room with the man, to have whatever conversation he needs to have. She’s just an extra pair of hands tonight. Here to help move some files.

Late that night, when they’re both home and the kids are long asleep, Jaime confirms that he’d arrived at an arrangement with the man after Brienne left the room. As if the man had any other choice—either he gives Jaime the access codes, or he risks the consequences of those photographs being sent, anonymously, to the police. The codes change every week, so Jaime will only retrieve them whenever they’re ready to send Jorah in. Or not.

“What happened back there?” she asks, as they sit together on the couch, and Jaime tells her about how he’d been waiting in the room next door, listening in—recording—just in case Donyse wouldn’t be able to convince the man, and they’d need something else on him. Jaime tells her about how Donyse had been a fool—half in love perhaps—and told the man the truth, the reason why she’d gotten close to him in the first place. He’d been enraged and—Jaime didn’t realise what was going on until it was too late—

“It wasn’t your fault,” Brienne says, rubbing Jaime’s arm, “he was the one that put his hands on her.”

“I put her in that situation—”

“You can’t do this to yourself. You couldn’t have known what would happen to her.” He’s said such words to her before, a few times over the years. But even Jaime needs reminding on occasion.

He sighs first, then stuns her by spitting out a bitter laugh. “We got what we wanted. The codes.”

“We—we don’t have to—” All she’d wanted was to delay their decision, and now…

“Don’t you see? This forces our hand. We have to tell my brother now.” Jaime leans back into the couch and looks to the ceiling. “We can’t hide the death of an agent from the Centre. Not forever.”

They wait, nonetheless—a few days. In total, Jaime hadn’t spent even half as much time with Donyse as he had with Pia. But she’d still been his agent for years, and he mourns her all the same. Brienne knows, moreover, that he’d retained some faint hope that they might not have to tell the Centre about any of this. So Jaime was mourning that too, perhaps more so—a choice that slipped away. He puts on a mask in front of the kids, dotes on them as always, but there’s a listlessness to him that doesn’t escape them. The twins are eight-and-a-quarter, as they like to announce proudly, and more observant than ever. Brienne tells Myrcella and Tommen that something happened at work—they lost a huge client, and _Daddy’s really disappointed, but he’ll be okay_. Privately, she tells Pod that they lost an agent, and he simply nods. He can understand, in some small way, after what happened with Hyle’s daughter. She doesn’t tell him about the rest of it.

When Jaime is ready, they arrange a meeting for all four of them at the safe house. Brienne, Jaime, Jorah, and Tyrion. If what happened hadn’t happened, and they decided to go ahead with informing the Centre anyway, they would have asked Jorah to tell Tyrion himself—it’d look better that way, less like they were trying to hide something. But, like Jaime said, this forces their hand. Brienne sees how Jorah looks at them when he arrives, some mixture of resignation and resentment, and she finds those feelings are mutual. She thinks she understands, now, what Jaime mentioned to her after that meeting with Jorah—that it wasn’t right for him to make this their responsibility.

“So, let me get this straight,” Tyrion says, once they’ve gone over everything. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose where it’s crossed by the scar. “Jorah tells you about this virus— _not me_ , not the Centre, but the two of you. Similarly, you decide not to report this directly to the Centre, but to buy yourselves some time by running what was essentially a rogue operation.” He releases his nose, then wraps those fingers around the stem of his wine glass. “I’d applaud your initiative if one of your agents hadn’t ended up dead because of it.”

“That isn’t fair—” Brienne feels compelled to reply, “we’d have run the same mission with Donyse if you’d known. In the exact same way. We had no idea about her relationship with this man, or that he had the capacity to, to do something like _that_.”

“Yes. It certainly seems like the assertion of… independence… is the running theme of this whole farce, isn’t it?”

“Brother,” Jaime growls. “Just give us the go ahead, and be done with it.”

Tyrion raises his glass to his lips, and takes a long sip. “At this stage,” he says, once he’s swallowed, “that seems to be our only option. The codes are changed—when? Start of the week?”

Jaime nods.

“Alright. Secure the codes, send them on to Jorah, and we’ll wrap this up by next week.”

“It’ll need to be properly handled,” Jorah warns. “We can’t risk infection at any point. I wasn’t exaggerating its effects.”

“Of course. You can trust we’ll make the proper arrangements.”

Jorah lets a sigh escape then, and Tyrion cocks his head at him. “Complete this mission, Jorah, and I promise you, retirement will be just around the corner. We won’t pursue your earlier decision to withhold this information from the Centre. You can leave this place having achieved something of real value.”

Jorah thanks Tyrion quietly. Brienne doesn’t think he looks much pleased at the prospect of retirement, whatever that might mean for someone like him, even if he’ll return as something of a hero for this. Fifteen years away from home. What would it be like to go back after all that time?

“I have an inkling why he chose not to come to me,” Tyrion muses, once he’s sent Jorah off. “But is there any particular reason you chose the same?”

“We’re here now, aren’t we?” Jaime mutters, and Brienne has to put a hand on his arm. Better to be honest, she thinks, but they can still tread lightly. “We had concerns,” she continues for him, “about how our country would use the virus.”

“And not how _this_ country might use it?” Tyrion slowly swirls the wine in his glass. “That doesn’t sound like _you_ , Brienne.”

“We wondered… if it might be better that less people have their hands on it,” she replies truthfully, ignoring the sarcasm in Tyrion’s voice. “Based on how Jorah described it to Jaime. But we also knew that it would need to be studied. So our country could be prepared, if it is used against us. That’s why—that’s why we were struggling.”

“Those are not your decisions to make.”

“We understand,” she says, nodding, “but we knew what the Centre’s orders would be.”

“And the Centre doesn’t always make the best decisions,” Jaime cuts in.

 _Fuck_. So much for _treading lightly_. She tightens her grip on Jaime’s arm. Better to be honest, yes, and she knows there’s some honesty allowed between brothers, but this comment—it’s too much, surely?

Tyrion turns to Jaime. “That hasn’t stopped you from acting on their orders before. Well, besides the one time—” and then he stops to glance back at Brienne.

“Go on.” Jaime lifts his prosthetic in a gesture of invitation. “You can speak freely about that here.”

“Mm. We can talk about _that_ in front of your wife. We can talk about all those people you saved by killing one man.”

Brienne looks at Jaime then. He doesn’t seem upset, not particularly, but he’s frowning at his brother anyway. “You sound like you’re insinuating something.”

“Not at all. It just interests me, the times when your conscience intervenes. Then, and now. The lives you think are worth saving, or sacrificing. _How many_ lives.” Tyrion spreads his hands, his uncurling fingers counting tens, hundreds, thousands. “But there’s one more woman’s life ruined now. Dead.”

Jaime stays quiet, just stares at his brother. Even in their silence, they seem to be communicating about— _something_. Brienne can’t help but think, _one more woman_? Pia, perhaps, but why would Tyrion be upset about Pia? Why would he mention— _dead_?

“Yes,” Tyrion finally says, though Jaime hadn’t spoken. “We agreed not to mention it.” He’s just brushing it away again, whatever _it_ was, that _secret_. But something seems to have… seeped through the cracks. It unsettles Brienne more so than his normally unreadable facade.

“What’s going on with you?” Jaime asks. There’s some small anger in it, but curiosity too. He places his hand over Brienne’s where it’s still grasping his arm, as if to say, _I’ll explain later_ , though she doesn’t know if he will. “That’s the second time you’ve brought it up in these past few months. First with—with Olenna Tyrell—”

“Forgive me,” Tyrion replies, in a way that suggests he doesn’t much care for Jaime’s forgiveness. “When you keep secrets from me, brother, it reminds me of—of a more tumultuous period in our past.”

“That doesn’t explain why you brought it up last time. I kept no secret from you then.”

Tyrion smiles, a—a _politician’s_ smile. Brienne doesn’t know how else to describe it. But there’s that sadness beneath it again, the one she caught in their very first conversation, and only a couple more times since. It’s not that she doesn’t think it’s sincere, but it’s so… so _obscure_ , that she feels more confusion than sympathy. “Perhaps you could say I’ve been going through a crisis of faith,” Tyrion explains, and _oh_ , perhaps it _isn’t_ better to be honest after all. “We’re quite familiar with those, aren’t we? I trust it will pass, as it always does with us.”

After a few moments, Jaime—gripping her hand even tighter now—says haltingly: “I believed I was protecting you, when I—when I did what I did. I know I’ve said this before, and it’s not an excuse, but—Father made me believe it. And I’m sorry for it.”

“I know. We’ve discussed it enough.” Tyrion pauses then, and refills his glass. “Father has a way of doing that, doesn’t he? Making us believe in ugly things?”

Brienne has no idea why, but she stands up right then. “I shouldn’t be hearing this,” she whispers. She wants to know, she’s always wanted to know, she wants to know precisely because Jaime’s insisted on avoiding the topic for so many years, but it seems—maybe—maybe that avoidance was for the best. _Maybe it isn’t better to be honest._

“Come now, Brienne,” Tyrion says, calmly. “Don’t begrudge your good-brother a little… vulnerability.”

“You’re my handler first. Before my good-brother.”

“Of course. I apologise. I know you’ve never been able to fully trust me—” Tyrion holds up a hand to stop her weak attempt at a protest— “but I hope you can at least trust that I always have your interests at heart. Yours and my brother’s.”

Brienne lowers herself back into her chair. Even if she does trust Tyrion in that way—she supposes she does—she realises she isn’t sure what he thinks their _interests_ actually are. All of a sudden, she recalls how Jaime told her that Jorah’s last operation had gone wrong, though he’d followed Tyrion’s plan. How Jaime had said, _I can’t put my finger on it, but there was something strange about the way Jorah talked about that mission._ She has the urge to ask Tyrion, _and the Cause? Do you have those interests at heart too?_ But she finds it doesn’t take as much effort as she expects to suppress that urge. It might be better not to go looking for honesty, in this case.

On their way home—it’s raining, which is strange for this time of year—Jaime asks if they can stop the car somewhere, somewhere they can just sit for a little while. So she turns into the next parking area she can find, an empty lot right by a small lake they’ve driven by many times, but at which they’ve never stopped. It’s more of a pond, really, now that she’s taking the time to look at it, but she imagines it must still be nice on a sunny day. Maybe they could bring the kids some time, though it’s a bit of a distance from home. There’s no one here right now, of course, on account of the weather. The rain seems to dissolve into a mist where it meets the surface of the lake, and she loses herself in that mist for some moments, before she turns off the wipers. Then, she observes how each drop hits the windshield, accumulates with the drops that came before, flows down the glass. The lake, the trees surrounding it, the clouds above, slowly blend together into some liquid penumbra. She thinks, perhaps not unexpectedly, of a bath. Of honesty.

Before Jaime can open his mouth, Brienne says, “You’re finally going to tell me.”

She watches as he pushes at his sleeve, fiddles absently with his prosthetic. “Yes,” he exhales. “I think so. You may think—you may think badly of—” Then he stops. “I was going to say, you may think badly of me once you’ve heard this.”

“Is that why it’s taken you so long?”

“No. Maybe. Maybe at first. But now—I don’t want to keep this from you.”

“Are you afraid your brother will tell me first?”

“No. Nothing like that. He won’t tell you against my wishes. Not directly, at least. I just—I didn’t like how it felt just now. You not knowing.” He holds his prosthetic up to her. “Sorry, will you—” and she folds his sleeve back and reaches for the straps. “It’s bothering me for some reason,” he mumbles.

She places his prosthetic on the dashboard once she’s removed it. “I know you were a different person before—before me.”

Jaime grunts as he works his left thumb into his stump. “Maybe I thought saying it out loud would—I don’t know, make me realise I’ve been that man all along. The man from before. That it’s everything else that hasn’t been real.”

“This isn’t a lie.” Of course it’s a lie. But not in the ways that matter.

“I don’t mean—” and then he seems to realise there’s no need to defend himself. “Anyway. I got used to not talking about it. It’s like I… you know how you’ve told me that you put things in boxes? In your mind?”

“Yeah.”

“I think it’s something like that. I needed to shut it away. Maybe… maybe more so than Targaryen. I shut it away, and I told myself not to open that box, until even the _idea_ of opening it just—it scared me.”

“Is it really that much worse than all the things I already know about you?”

“No. It probably isn’t.” Jaime has lifted a finger to the window now, and is tracing the droplets running down the glass. “It’s just—it might be the thing I regret the most.”

“You know—” her own finger picks at the stitching on the edge of her seat, the threads that join the leather— “you know I could never love you any less. If that’s what you’re concerned about.” She hasn’t had to tell him that for a long time, but her mouth recognises the sentiment well enough.

“I know,” he replies. “I’m—I’m not worried about that. Not anymore.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Alright.” He takes one deep breath, and another. “My brother—he didn’t get into this like I did, or you. He wasn’t trained like us. Because my father had… kept him a secret for so long, he decided to use him in a, a different way. Not to spy on the enemy, but on… our own people. So my brother was planted in different departments, in the Centre, even in the rest of the government. Since he was maybe sixteen or so. He’d play errand boy, or deliver mail—I think he might even have been a janitor once—at least until he was older. My brother hated it, but he got to be out of the house, to listen and watch and learn, and it was _something_. Then he’d report back to my father if there was ever any… cause for concern.”

“He once told me he was a ghost,” Brienne murmurs. “That it made him a pretty good spy.”

“Mm. No one would ever look at him—or they _would_ , but they wouldn’t think to link him back to the General. And anyone my brother identified as a threat—they’d be removed too quickly for him to be any real danger. That’s what I liked to believe, anyway, when I was out in the field, and I couldn’t be around to… to protect him. Then—” Jaime taps his finger on the window— “then there was a girl.”

“A girl,” she echoes. _One more woman, dead._

“My brother wasn’t yet twenty, and she was young too. He met her in the office, and they were—I suppose they were quite fond of each other. In love, even. I don’t know how, or why, but he told her who he really was. Who our father really was. He wanted her to meet me, and we did meet, once, when I was in between missions. My brother made me promise to keep it a secret, and I did. I didn’t even tell my—my cousin. But my father still found out. He had eyes and ears everywhere, even on his own children. And he was _furious_.”

Jaime pauses, takes a couple more breaths again. “My father told me she was a traitor,” he resumes, “That she got close to my brother to get close to us. To hurt us. At the time, there was a, a conflict within the Centre, a leadership struggle, and it had broken into rival factions. There were rumours that people were already disappearing, that it might get more violent. It seems so… so ridiculous to think about it now, but my father convinced me that the girl was part of it. So he made me take her away. A show of power, since everyone knew exactly whose son I was. I took her away in front of everyone, in front of my brother, who couldn’t do _anything_. For a long time, he really believed that she was intending to betray him. _I_ really believed it. I told him Father knew. And we—we’d always only known to trust the family first, before anything.”

“Where… where did you take her?”

“Prison, first. I did the—the interrogation. She wouldn’t say anything. Because there was nothing to say, but I didn’t know that at the time. Eventually, my father… he had her sent to a labour camp anyway.”

“What?” _Gods_ —they had _nothing_ on the girl. “But people are only sent to the camps because—and you had no proof—”

Jaime frowns at her. “We didn’t need proof to send her there. You know that’s how it works.”

“I—” _didn’t know_ , she can’t seem to say. Didn’t she? There were rumours, but—

“Oh.” His eyes widen. “I thought you knew.”

Maybe she did. Maybe she’d put it into a box, a long time ago, and shoved that box into the back of her mind. “And she… she died there?” she wills herself to ask.

“Not long after. It was the middle of winter, and she’d fallen ill… at least, that’s what it said on paper. My brother had—I didn’t realise, but he didn’t let it go. Even after he’d found out about her death. He looked into it for years and years, and he could never find any evidence that she was anything other than… other than a girl who worked in an office. One day—this was a few months before we came here—he confronted our father. _A distraction_ , the General called her. _A nobody. How dare my brother reveal his identity to her?_ I always thought—I always thought what he meant to ask was, _how dare my brother be happy_? Happiness—that isn’t _useful_.”

“You were there? When this… this confrontation happened?”

Jaime nods. “I think my brother wanted me to be there, for the truth of it. Even though neither of us… even though we’re both still doing _this_ , all these years later. But after that day, my brother stopped speaking to me. Not even to say goodbye, before I left with you and the kids. I wasn’t sure we’d ever see each other again, and I didn’t think he would ever forgive me. Until he showed up here.”

Brienne remembers yet again—the way Jaime and Tyrion had embraced the first day, and all the tension she read in it. “Okay,” she breathes. “Okay. So that’s all of it?” _All of it_. She hadn’t meant to sum it up so neatly—all of the pain, and the cruelty, and the betrayal—the _camps_. She’d known, hadn’t she? About the camps?

Jaime just nods once more.

“Okay. Now I know.”

“Now you know. You know the kind of person I was before.”

“Don’t— _Jaime_.” How could he say _that_? How could he think he was a monster for _that_? She couldn’t rightly say she wouldn’t have done the same, if she had been put in his position. “Your father—he _lied to you_. To both of you. And you did what you thought was best for your family.”

“I could have—”

“You _couldn’t_ —and I’m, I’m not trying to say it was fine that you did what you did. That girl didn’t deserve what happened to her, and I wish you didn’t have any part in it. But the information you were given—what choice did you have?”

Jaime whips his prosthetic off the dashboard then, so abruptly that Brienne jerks in her seat. “ _That’s the thing_ ,” he says, as he straps it to his stump again. “Maybe there’s always a choice. Maybe saying there _isn’t_ a choice is just… the excuse. The more I’ve thought about it over the years, the more I’ve wondered what else my father lied to us about. What truths did I _choose_ not to see? How many times have I told myself I didn’t have a choice, when I _did_?”

“Is that why you—” she swallows— “is that why you stopped believing? In the Cause?”

“I—I don’t know. I think it started much earlier than that. But I… I always believed I didn’t have a choice. For a long time. Even after I stopped believing in the Cause. And believing I didn’t have a choice—it made a lot of things easier to… to do. To live with.”

 _Believed. Didn’t_. _Made._ All past tense. “You say that like… you say that like you think you have a choice _now_.”

“No, that’s not what I—I don’t even know what _having a choice_ would look like, for me. I just think— _having no choice_ isn’t something I should hide behind anymore.”

What does that mean? Not hiding behind it anymore? What would that entail—what decisions would he make because of it? How would he feel when forced, truly forced—trapped by the crushing weight of _having no choice_? Has he been feeling that all this time? _You didn’t choose me_ , he’d told her once, in anguish. She didn’t understand why that was so important to him, and she didn’t understand what it meant for her to be his only reason for staying in this life, but now maybe she _does_ and—and—what if one day she’s not enough for him to stay? What if she’s his excuse, and he has no more use for excuses? What if one day he realises he has a choice, and it isn’t _her_? Her mind races through every possible question—and worse, every possible answer—within the span of a few seconds, and before she can even comprehend any of it, before she can stop herself, before she even realises what she intends to say, she gasps:

“Don’t leave me.”

She clasps her hands over her mouth, but it’s too late. She’s already said it and—why—why the hell did she say something like _that_? After what he’d just confessed to her? After the—the girl, and the lies, and the camps, and the rest of it—of all the _selfish_ , _pathetic_ things—

“Why would you—” she hears Jaime begin to ask, and _what must he think?_ But then she feels the warmth of his palm on the back of her neck, the tender strokes of his thumb. “Hey,” he says, and she can feel the warmth in his voice too. “I wouldn’t—there isn’t—Brienne, I’d, I’d _never_.”

These half-sentences—the promise that Jaime’s embedded within them—she’s never wanted to believe in something more than this. Call it _selfish_ , and _pathetic_ , but it’s true. Jaime, by her side, always—she’s never wanted to be more certain of anything.

(That night, wrapped in Jaime’s arms, Brienne dreams. She dreams of locking things in boxes, and forgetting they exist. No—maybe it’s not forgetting. Forgetting is just an excuse for _choosing not to see_. She sees them now, these boxes. Stacks of them. Stacks—walls—houses. There’s a three-bedroom house constructed out of them. There’s a box she wants to open, right in the foundation of this house, and she can only do so if she removes every other box that has been placed above it. So she does. She takes them down one by one, lays them out systematically, so she can put them back in order. They’re supposed to be locked, these boxes, yet somehow, when she holds them in her hands, she can tell that they’re not. It’s okay, though. She’ll be careful, won’t she? She’ll be so careful with them.

Then she picks one up and—oh, it’s not supposed to be so _heavy_ , and she’s supposed to be strong, strong enough not to strain at its added weight. But she’s so surprised by it that she drops the box anyway. For some reason, she expects files to spill out of this box. _I have a lot of files to move_ , she remembers someone telling her. _I could use some help._ It’s only when the box falls open that she realises it isn’t a box at all. It’s—it’s a _suitcase_. A suitcase that contains no files.

Onto the dark red carpet tumbles the body of a woman, joints twisted so unnaturally…)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I _promise_ the breaking point is coming soon. I just needed to wrap up the ‘Tysha’ story (which I wanted to do without any sexual violence). I didn’t base that on any particular narrative in The Americans, though I was inspired by a few side plots. I’m looking at around the thirty chapter mark for this story, so we’re getting there. I do appreciate you sticking with me, all five of you still reading this lmao.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	26. Excavations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It actually took me less than a week to update this time! I don’t want to make promises that I’ll keep breaking, but I do feel like I’m on a roll.
> 
> First half of the fic has a tiny bit of a detail that's, maybe not exactly graphic, but at least icky. It has to do with a corpse again.

In a week, they receive the signal from Jorah that the sample is ready for transport. The handoff is scheduled for two nights after. Jaime waits for him at the designated point, at the designated time.

Jorah doesn’t show.

It’s worrying, of course, but Jaime knows it could have been the result of any number of factors. There’s still the alternate appointment, scheduled for the next night. This time, it’s Brienne who waits for him at the designated point, at the designated time.

Jorah doesn’t show.

Two missed appointments. No further communication. They wait another day, then Tyrion sends a team to stake out Jorah’s apartment. He’s not seen entering or leaving the building for the next two days—though a couple of men are spotted who might, _might_ be Counterintelligence.

Tyrion tells them to assume the worst.

“You think he was caught?” Jaime asks.

“There’s no other explanation for it.”

Except Jorah had told Jaime, privately, that _he can’t remember what it feels like to be free_. “You don’t think he—”

“No,” Tyrion replies assuredly. “I don’t believe Jorah would do that.” Then some uncertainty falls over Tyrion’s face. “I’m concerned, however, of what he might say under… duress. We’ll have to abandon this safe house just in case, since he’s been here. I assume you didn’t reveal any personal information beyond your first names?”

“I think he knows we have twins,” Brienne answers, “but not Pod.” She looks at Jaime for confirmation, and he nods at her. “And he knows what we look like, of course.”

“Mm. That applies to all three of us.” Tyrion puts his fingertips together. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that now, except be vigilant until we can find out more. I’ll let the Centre know that we should delay any non-essential missions.”

And so, they find themselves in a strange position. They’re anxious, understandably, about the possibility of being discovered—Jaime obsessively checks the streets outside their home and office for any unfamiliar vehicles; Brienne changes her routes to her meetings as a precaution. This anxiety isn’t the strange part. What’s strange is that it’s all suffused with a sense of— _consolation_. Whether Jorah’s absence is voluntary or otherwise, he was their only link to the pathogen, and now that link no longer exists. Donyse’s death had forced them to reveal the pathogen to the Centre, and now Jorah’s capture— _alleged_ capture—means it will remain out of reach of their own country. The decisions—the choices were made for them, as a result of circumstances beyond their control. The chips just happened to fall where Jaime wanted.

“Is it terrible that I feel so—” Brienne says to him one evening. She puts her palms to her forehead. “Gods, I feel so stupid for even asking. I should feel bad for Jorah—and I do, but I’m… I’m _relieved_ , Jaime. That we didn’t have to go through with it.”

“Me too,” he replies, and says nothing more. He’d opened up to her about not wanting to hide behind _having no choice_. How he’s finding it harder and harder to use _having no choice_ as a rationalisation for his actions— _their_ actions. A rationalisation for ignoring the consequences of their work, beyond how that work serves the Cause, and the Centre. Ultimately, there hadn’t really been a choice to make, not this time. Things unfolded the way they did, and he still got the outcome he hoped for in the first place—to limit the potential for this virus to hurt more people, by preventing it from falling into the hands of their own country. Jaime wasn’t sure it was what Brienne wanted too, though, until she’d admitted her relief. But he wasn’t particularly surprised, either. The way she’d reacted when he’d mentioned the labour camps—like she didn’t know it was something their country was capable of—

Anyway. He doesn’t push her to explain. She’s relieved they didn’t have to go through with it, and so is he, and that is that.

A month goes by, and there have been no suspicious vehicles, nobody tailing them to and from their meetings. The frequency of their missions returns to its regular pace, although they’re still being warier than usual. Even if Jorah was captured—they’re still not entirely sure—it doesn’t seem he has revealed anything regarding the three of them specifically. As the anxiety wanes, Jaime entertains the thought that all the turmoil he had endured throughout this operation was merely some sort of—of _temporary insanity_. He’d let Olenna Tyrell get in his head, that was all, and it had come to a head with Jorah. But now that’s over, at least for the foreseeable future. He needs to focus on Brienne, and their family. That’s why he still does what he does—so he can live that other half of his life too, a life of peaceful domesticity, one he’d likely never have been able to experience back home. He just needs to keep things in balance, and everything will be fine.

It’s a naive thought. But it might have worked, for a while, if Tyrion hadn’t informed them of their next assignment.

“You want us to _what_?” Jaime seethes.

“The _Centre_ —” Tyrion seems keen to correct, “wants you to attempt to retrieve the pathogen. Again.”

“And how the fuck are we supposed to do that, with Jorah missing?”

“Dead, actually.”

Jaime stills, and hears Brienne suck in a breath next to him, but neither of them say a word.

“He died a few weeks ago, at a medical facility,” Tyrion elaborates. “A government research institute for infectious diseases, to be more specific.”

“How— _why_?”

“It appears he was infected with the virus.”

“What?” Brienne speaks up now. “Did they do that to him? Deliberately?”

“No. We don’t think so. He seems to have been taken directly to the facility, with no warning, and I doubt they’d risk a move like that during his arrest.”

“Then how—”

“I suspect—” Tyrion folds his lips into a thin line. “I suspect he infected himself.”

“Why would he do _that_?” Jaime balks.

“Any number of reasons. A form of… of suicide, perhaps. He looked at his options, and decided there was no good outcome for him. Or out of loyalty. To stop the enemy from interrogating him.”

Jaime tries not to think of liquefied organs, of blood coming out through one’s skin. There are less dreadful ways to martyr oneself. “So how exactly does the Centre propose we retrieve a sample now?”

Tyrion flips open the folder on the table to reveal a map. “We know where he’s buried. Jorah.”

 _No. The Centre can’t be asking them to—_ “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was. Jorah has _one last job_ , I’ve been told.”

So a choice has been made for them, yet again—and this, _this_ is the insanity, not Jaime’s struggles over the past few months. Those tempestuous thoughts return in full force, ring in his ears some nights later, when they find themselves in a desolate area at the back of the medical facility. Security is lax here—it’s nothing more than a graveyard, albeit with no headstones—so they should remain undisturbed for the time it will take to dig up Jorah Mormont’s unmarked grave. Even after a few weeks—probably less, depending on how long his body was kept, studied—they can still see where the grass has failed to grow back over the disturbed soil.

Three other people round up their team. There’s Ned and Catelyn Stark, who had greeted him in their usual barely civil manner, which he really couldn’t care less about given the current state of affairs. And another man whom they’ve never worked with before. For a second, when he saw this man standing beside the Starks earlier, Jaime had thought they might actually have gone through with training their son—Robb, if he remembers correctly. He doesn’t know if they’d made any headway with that, and Brienne said Catelyn never mentions it at all. But no, this man is older, in his late twenties at least. Jaime can’t even muster the energy to ask for his name.

They work in silence, but in Jaime’s mind there is a voice that keeps chanting, _it’s insanity_. _It’s insanity_ , and it’s taking them so many hours that he begins to worry that the sun will come up before they find the body. But he can’t do anything to speed things up—he’s on watch, while the other four work in shifts, two at a time. He can’t quite manage with the shovel even with a strengthened left hand. His reluctance, his futile resistance, doesn’t stop him from feeling like the most useless one of the team. So when they finally hit something—metal, it sounds like—he feels obligated to complete the rest of their plan, even though _it’s insanity_. Catelyn and the other man watch from above as Jaime makes his way down into the hole, where Brienne and Ned stand beside a large metal box, its lid soldered shut. Jaime and Brienne don masks and gloves—he hopes to all seven hells it’s enough to protect them—while Ned works at the seam of the container with a torch.

There he is. Jorah Mormont, still recognisable through the thick plastic sheet wrapped around him. Jaime doesn’t know if this recognisability is comforting or not, but he doesn’t let his eyes linger on Jorah’s face, or any other part of the body. He averts his eyes instead, to Ned climbing out of the hole via their makeshift ladder. When he looks back to Brienne, she already has the utility knife in hand. Jaime crouches down, pulls the plastic sheet tight, and Brienne bends down beside him. With the knife, she slices through the plastic, right at Jorah’s thigh. Right _into_ Jorah’s thigh. Because Jorah Mormont has one last job—one last pound of flesh to sacrifice for the Cause.

 _It’s insanity_. Jaime holds out the container for the sample—the _sample_ , gods, it’s _a chunk of Jorah’s thigh_ —and feels the weight of it as Brienne places it inside. As he secures the container, he hears the sound of the knife hitting the plastic as Brienne tosses it into the metal box with Jorah’s body, then—

“Shit!”

Jaime jumps back, and Brienne too. There’s another body laying over Jorah’s now, and this one is still very much alive. It’s the man, the one whose name he doesn’t know, and he’s fallen off the edge and into the hole, managing to tumble straight into the fucking metal box. _Fuck_. The man scrambles to his feet, hisses as he turns to face them and— _fuck fuck fuck_. His hand is bleeding. It’s bleeding where he’s cut it on the knife. The knife Brienne used to slice into Jorah’s contaminated flesh.

“It doesn’t hurt,” the man says emptily, the fool. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t hurt. Jaime lifts his head towards Brienne, but the man seems to take it as a sign to climb out, because he’s walking towards the ladder and—

There’s a bullet in his back; he falls. Brienne tucks the gun back into her pants, as Jaime hands the container up to Ned, and proceeds to shove the man’s body back in with Jorah’s. With Brienne’s help, they close the lid over them both. There’s nothing else they could have done. Or rather, it was the _most merciful thing_ they could have done. The man was as good as dead, and they don’t know how contagious he would have been if they had let him live—or rather, let him die a much more agonising death. Jaime doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or scream at the sheer irony of restricting the spread of this virus tonight, by killing this one man, only to hand it right over to people who might resort to spreading it on a much, much larger scale in future.

No—it’s not irony. It’s _insanity_.

It takes much less time to fill the hole than it took to dig it, and much less effort. Jaime figures out a way to help, with his one good hand and the now-extra shovel, whose former user is lying beneath metal and soil. Afterwards, they part ways with the Starks, who take the sample with them. It’s not his and Brienne’s responsibility to transport it tonight, but this part—this doesn’t feel like a consolation at all. One more person is dead because of this fucking operation, and he doesn’t even know the man’s name. Hells, they should have made the choice at the start, not to tell the Centre at all. Every subsequent event, every circumstance that has forced their hand since, every choice that has been made for them—they wouldn’t have had to go through with all of that if they’d just kept everything between themselves and Jorah. Briefly, he wonders what the Starks would have done, if Jorah had known them and gone to them instead. They probably would have told the Centre right away, like the loyal soldiers that they are.

Brienne drives them a distance away from the facility. They change out of their clothes, pack those into a duffel bag along with the masks and gloves. Then, they dispose of the bag in a forested area by the side of the road. By the time they reach a safe house, it’s the crack of dawn. They head straight for the shower, scrub each other down completely. It’s excessive, probably—they hadn’t touched anything with their bare skin—but with three kids at home they can’t be too careful. Jaime has the sense that they’re cleaning off much more than just any trace of dirt, or the virus.

They leave the shower running, and Jaime stands beneath the water, refusing to blink it out of his eyes. Just lets it sting. Brienne is scrubbing at his back with a bit too much force, but he doesn’t tell her to ease up. He’s too tired. Too tired to speak. And maybe he wants to feel that pain, that abrasion on his skin. It wasn’t their fault the man died—it really wasn’t, this time, it was an accident—but it feels like their fault anyway. He knows Brienne is thinking the same. How many people had to die already for this thrice-damned virus? How many people will die because of it?

Out of the blue, he remembers something from a past life. His first life.

“It’s my nameday,” he says to Brienne. “My real one.” Not the one on the documents that say he is Jaime Lannister.

The scrubbing stops. “Your fortieth?”

“Yeah.”

He turns around to face her then.

“Brienne—I, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

* * *

The thing about this life is—you can’t just quit. It’s not like any other job. You can’t just say you don’t want to do it anymore, and then stop. It doesn’t work like that.

It’s almost absurd, Brienne thinks. Jaime has earned it, he must have, after so many years of service. Then again, he’d already lost a hand when they were sent to this country, and if all had gone smoothly, they were supposed to stay here till—till the twins were old enough for university, at least, if not longer. That’s at least another decade more. Jaime was sent here, ordered to be here for this amount of time, having already made the sacrifices he’d made. That’s how much the Centre, and the General, demanded of him. _Demands_ of him.

Even if the Centre would let them return home at this point, what would happen then? Jaime might be able to convince his father to give him a desk job, but Brienne? Just shy of thirty, and able-bodied, there’s no way the Centre would allow her to just… stop. And truthfully, though she feels like she’s been at this job an age already, though she’s developed certain reservations about the Cause—or at least, about the people who act in the name of it—Brienne can’t bring herself to just abandon the work. There’s a voice in her head that still tells her that there’s some good to be done. But she’ll be separated from Jaime, back home, if he won’t continue. They weren’t even expected to be properly married and in love—it was just a cover, in the eyes of the Centre, and they wouldn’t need that cover any longer. They could make everything official, have a wedding ceremony with their real identities. But the Centre wouldn’t need them to _keep up appearances_ , and their assignments would reflect that accordingly. They’d likely spend much less time with each other than they do now.

Brienne can’t imagine not going home to Jaime and the children each night. That’s the last thing that she wants.

Oh gods, the _children_. What about the children? They’d both agreed they couldn’t see Myrcella and Tommen returning home, growing up there. Learning an entirely new language, a new culture. They didn’t think the twins would be able to adjust, not when they’re already eight-and-a-half. Would they—would the twins _hate them_ , for lying? For ripping everything out from under their feet? Brienne can’t stand the thought. And now they have Pod to think about too. Would he even be allowed to go home with them? He’s turning seventeen in a few months, and actually starting to look like it, too—still skinny, but taller now, shoulders broader. Seventeen is the age that Brienne joined the Centre, and began her training. Would he be expected to do that too? And later—the twins?

No. She won’t think about that. Going home isn’t an option, not right now at least. So they can only stay, and figure something out here.

(There is another option as well—defecting. They can barely call it an option. Neither of them would ever betray their country that way, no matter how weary and disillusioned Jaime is becoming. Besides, their lives would still change irrevocably if they defected. They have no idea what risks they’d be taking by doing that, if this government would be willing to protect them in exchange for information, or throw them in prison, or worse. If their children were to be taken from them— _Seven_ , she can’t fathom it. Even if they _were_ open to walking down this path, even if they seriously, _seriously_ considered it, it presents more unknowns, more dangers than any other path.)

So, they keep going. They run their missions, and they keep going. There’s nothing else they can do. They don’t know what the solution would be. Grasping for some kind of fix, Brienne asks Jaime to request another break from Tyrion. Surely Tyrion would be able to do that, the way he’d done so after Pia’s departure. No new missions, just managing the agents Jaime already has on his slate. It takes several meetings for Jaime to open his mouth and just _ask_ , and he does so without making any mention of _I don’t think I can do this anymore_. Tyrion looks at him knowingly anyway, but doesn’t probe. He says he’ll see what he can do, but he can’t make any promises. He always says that.

With Tyrion’s intervention, things do slow down for Jaime, and he seems more stable for a while. Maybe they can do this. Maybe they can keep things going. But within a few months, they notice that the less Jaime takes on, the more Brienne is expected to do, the more hours she’s expected to put into the work. She’s exhausted most days, more exhausted than ever, and though she tries to tell Jaime she’s able to bear it, he is the one who breaks first. One night, she comes back with bruised ribs, possibly a sprained wrist. She knows better than to mention that she might have returned unscathed if she had been more alert, or had Jaime there to help her, but he comes to that conclusion anyway. She thinks they’re minor, they’re _nothing_ , these injuries—Jaime had _lost his hand_ —and still he’s upset. _It isn’t fair_ , he says. _It isn’t fair for you to do this for me._

He goes back to Tyrion on his own, before Brienne can stop him. Before she can tell him she’d do anything for him, even if she has to work herself to the bone. She supposes the same is true of Jaime—that he’d do anything for her—but the idea doesn’t warm her the way it might, at any other time.

Jaime’s workload resumes.

“Remind me, every day, that this family is why I do this,” Jaime had told her, right after he’d met with Tyrion. “You— _you_ are what keeps me going.” So that’s what she does. It’s what she whispers in his ear when they wake up in the morning, and before they go to sleep at night. It’s in the way she squeezes his hand when they sit down for meals with the kids, in the way she leans her cheek on his shoulder when they’re gathered together in the living room, snuggling with the twins on the couch. These are the only things she can do. Brienne doesn’t dare beg him not to leave her again—she doesn’t want him to do all of this from a place of guilt. Jaime wants their family to keep living the life they’re living, and he will do what it takes for that to happen. It’s not the same as doing it out of guilt. She tells herself it’s not the same.

(She doesn’t actually think he’ll leave. It was just a fear that had slipped out of her that one time, a fear she buries—not in a box in her mind, but deep in her belly, uncaged. Occasionally, however, she has to wonder which is worse—Jaime leaving her, or Jaime staying against his will. She has to remind herself that if he left, it’d be against his will too. He’s caught between two fundamentally incompatible things: he no longer wants to serve the Cause, and he doesn’t want to be separated from their family. But the second will always matter more than the first. Jaime promises her that, and she believes him.)

The twins are eight-and-three-quarters. Then nine. Nine-and-a-quarter. Nine-and-a-half. Pod is seventeen, and they try to cherish this time before he turns eighteen, when they won’t have control over his missions anymore. But they worry about that too, and so does Pod. Each day is eating away at Jaime, each day is eating away at Pod, each day is eating away at Brienne. Myrcella and Tommen ask time and again if everything is okay—Tommen keeps depositing Bear in either one of their rooms at night, thinking the cat will provide them some comfort—but she doesn’t know what she can tell them, beyond using work as an excuse, or school for Pod. At the end of it all, they have a life, don’t they? The five of them, in this three-bedroom house, with a cat incongruously named Bear? They have each other, and sometimes Brienne can still say that she is happy, even if they have to live the lives that they do. She doesn’t know if they could possibly sustain this for another eight, nine years, her and Jaime. But sometimes, sometimes they are _happy_.

Then, one night, something happens that derails everything.

One night—a night that had seemed, at first, not much different than any one of their more peaceful nights—she and Jaime hear the ring of the doorbell from the basement.

It’s late; almost midnight. Jaime locks eyes with her, and raises an eyebrow.

The doorbell rings once more.

Brienne is about to make her way up when he catches her arm. “This late?” he asks tentatively, with an undercurrent of, _should we be concerned?_

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe one of the neighbours?”

Jaime squeezes her arm, then lets go. She hears his footsteps follow close behind hers as they both head up the stairs.

When she opens the front door—there’s no one there.

“A prank?” Jaime whispers, from over her shoulder.

“Maybe,” she murmurs back, looking out into the darkness. Nothing moves beneath the street lamps, beneath the porch lights of the other houses along the street. Brienne realises then that she’s clenching her free hand into a tight fist, the hand that isn’t holding the door open. She takes half a step, peers out onto the porch, but it’s empty.

“Leave it,” Jaime tells her. “Lock the door.”

She’s about to heed his advice when she hears a rustle in the bushes. “Hello?” she says into the darkness. But there’s still no response. That is, until she sees a figure emerge from the shadows, and linger at the foot of the stairs leading up to the porch. A figure with a tall but slim build, in dark clothes, hood up and head cast down. It’s unsettling, but—not _sinister_. If anything, they seem… _nervous_.

“Can we help you?” Jaime calls.

As the figure steps closer to the light, Brienne sees that they’re gripping something in one hand. It looks like—she squints—a _book_.

Brienne knows that book. It has a bookmark sandwiched between pages seventy-four and seventy-five, with a handful of characters underlined in pencil. Subtle enough to go unnoticed. It’s not their address exactly, but it should be enough information for someone who goes looking for it, as this person has clearly done. But that means—

She strides right onto the porch then. The figure flinches, takes a step back, but jolts their head up to Brienne, stares at her with frightened eyes. Ice blue eyes, red-rimmed; set in a face with skin like porcelain. Brienne can see now that the figure is a girl, probably no more than fifteen, sixteen. Her hair peeks from beneath her hood, and it’s auburn. Just like her mother’s.

_It can’t be._

The girl—

It’s Sansa Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, if it wasn’t already obvious, so begins the final arc.
> 
> The first half of this fic was mostly based on The Americans 4x13 and 5x01. Yes, I stole most of the gravedigging scene, including the person who falls, cuts himself, and is killed.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	27. Silences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I’m realising you may need a bit of recap since I wrote about the Starks quite a while ago (or you could also just reread the second half of Chapter 21). Ned and Catelyn were the prototype for the Programme, but Jaime and Brienne only met them for the first time about two-and-a-half, three years ago. The Starks only have Robb and Sansa (because there’s no way spies could manage more than two kids, let alone five). Ned and Jaime can’t stand each other, but Catelyn and Brienne met up occasionally during those three years, outside of missions they had to do together like digging up Jorah’s body. Roughly a few months before this point in the fic, Catelyn asked Brienne for a way to contact her. Brienne gave her the book, which Sansa brought with her. So, the timeline of that last bit in parentheses in Chapter 21 was meant to be overlapping with the past five chapters. Sorry if it got confusing!

When Brienne turns to Jaime and blurts out, “It’s Sansa,” it takes three seconds for the syllables to make any sense to him.

 _Who the fuck is San—oh hells._ “Sansa _Stark_?”

The girl staggers onto the porch and gasps, “Are you Brienne—”

Then she collapses. Brienne rushes forward and catches her just before she hits the ground. “She’s fainted,” Brienne says, though Jaime can see for himself that the girl is unconscious. She lifts Sansa into her arms—her red hair, tied up in a messy ponytail, tumbles out of her hood—and brings her into the house. The girl has dropped a couple of things: a map for bus services in the greater metropolitan area, and a book, which he recognises as the one Brienne gave Catelyn months ago. When he picks that up, he can see that there’s blood on the cover, and staining some of the pages too. _Fuck._

Jaime looks out into the street—best to make sure no one is watching, or _hells_ , that the girl wasn’t followed—and sees nothing but empty roads and parked cars. Satisfied, he steps into the house too, closes and locks the door behind him. Brienne has brought Sansa to the couch, and he hurries over to them. “Is she breathing?” he asks, and Brienne nods. He shows her the book, the blood on its cover; she curses under her breath before turning back to the girl to check her for any injuries. Just then, Sansa begins to stir.

“Sansa, are you alright?” Brienne kneels on the floor beside the couch. “Are you hurt?”

The girl takes a while to fully regain consciousness, then she looks at Brienne and shakes her head, thank the gods for that. But that means the blood isn’t hers. That means the blood might be— “Are you… Brienne? My mother,” Sansa’s voice trembles, “the book—”

“I know. I’m Brienne, yes, and this is Jaime, my husband. We’re—we know your parents.”

Sansa looks past Brienne, and as soon as she meets Jaime’s eyes she—she _panics_ , scrambles backwards on the couch. Like she recognises him from somewhere, and she’s… scared. But he’s never crossed paths with her before.

“Hey, whoa.” Brienne lifts both her hands up as if in surrender. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

The girl is still looking at Jaime with apprehension, but no longer seems on edge. Nonetheless, he thinks it’s best to let Brienne handle this situation, and he steps backwards, retreats to the kitchen. “Why don’t I get you some water?” he hears Brienne say. “Some food—are you hungry?” There’s a long pause, during which Sansa presumably responds, because Brienne continues with, “Okay, just stay right there, and I’ll fix you something to eat.”

Jaime opens the fridge when he hears that to take out some leftovers, then turns on the tap and lets it run. “Did you notice that?” he whispers when Brienne approaches, hoping the running water is enough to muffle their conversation. “It was like she… recognised me.”

“But that’s impossible,” Brienne replies, as she puts a pan on the stove to heat up the food. She’s as perplexed by it as he is.

“You don’t think Ned and Catelyn told her—”

“They wouldn’t—they’re not supposed to be doing that. And even if they did, how would she know what you look like?”

It’s far-fetched, he admits, but he can’t think of any other connection. “What the fuck do you think happened? What are we going to do with her?”

Brienne just looks at Jaime helplessly, so he sighs, turns off the tap, folds his arms. He waits in the kitchen while she prepares a plate of food and a glass of water, and brings it over to the couch. He doesn’t want to spook the girl again—she’s shaken enough—though he’s still confused about why exactly she reacted to him the way she did. It’s only when he hears Brienne tell Sansa to _stay here, we’re just going into the garage to have a chat_ , that he heads straight for that door, past the girl picking at her food.

“Can you sleep on the couch tonight?” Brienne asks when they’re alone. “I’ll bring her up to our room. I don’t want the kids to see her here before we can figure out what’s going on.”

“Okay.” Jaime runs his left hand through his hair. “Shit. Something bad must have happened to them. How the hells did she even find her way here on her own? Even with the book—”

“I don’t know,” Brienne interrupts, though he wasn’t expecting her to know the answer. She walks over to the other end of the garage, and back again. Pacing. “Could you take over my meeting tomorrow morning? I’ll stay home with her. And you’ll have to deal with the kids too, maybe tell them I’m not feeling well. That I’m staying in bed.”

“Yeah, sure.” He watches her for a while as she keeps pacing, pacing. There, back. “I assume… we’re not telling the Centre.”

She stops in her tracks, and stares down at her feet. “No. No, I don’t think we should tell the Centre. Not yet.”

* * *

Brienne doesn’t sleep all night, and she suspects Sansa sleeps little too, if at all, based on the soft sobs that drift intermittently from beneath the covers. She had given the girl the bed, choosing instead to watch over her from the armchair, where she is still sitting now. She listens to the sounds coming from the other side of the door, of Jaime and the kids getting ready for the day. A while later, there’s a knock at the door followed by two voices chorusing, _bye Mummy, get well soon_. She feigns a cough and says _bye, love you_ in return, before hearing Jaime call out _sorry_ , followed by an annoyed but affectionate _what did I just say about bothering Mummy?_

When she turns her head to the bed, Sansa’s just easing herself up to a seated position. “You have kids?” Sansa says quietly.

“Yeah. Those were the twins. Myrcella and Tommen, nine. We have Podrick too, Pod. Our foster son. He’s already seventeen.” She inches herself forwards to sit on the edge of the chair. “You’re fifteen, right? Your mother told me.”

Sansa nods. “I’m—I’m really sorry to impose on your family.” She enunciates each word well, and her manner strikes Brienne as something strangely regal, so similar to Catelyn. But Sansa disintegrates soon enough. Tears start running down her cheeks as she rambles, “I just—I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and my mother gave me the book—she kept it in a—and there was a note that had your name on it, so I came here—”

Brienne stands up then, and goes to sit on the edge of the bed. “What happened, Sansa? Can you tell me what happened?”

“They’re… they’re…” Sansa’s hands grip the covers, and she takes three quick breaths. “They’re—d-dead. My dad, and my mum, and—and—and—and Robb, too. My brother.”

 _No—that can’t be true. Her whole family?_ Brienne reaches over and takes one of Sansa’s hands. “I’m so sorry, Sansa. I’m really sorry.” She doesn’t know what else she can say. Gods, Ned, and Catelyn, and their son too. _What the fuck happened?_ “Can you tell me what happened?” she repeats, but Sansa only shakes her head, and pulls away from Brienne’s grasp, then puts her face in her hands. Brienne doesn’t think she’ll get any answers out of her right now, not for that question at least, but _fuck_ , she needs to know. _Catelyn, shit._ She’d been the closest thing Brienne had to a friend.

“Can you at least,” Brienne ventures, when Sansa regains some of her composure, “can you at least tell me how you got here?” She needs to know if there’s any way Sansa could have been traced from her home to theirs. She needs to know if Sansa coming here has put their whole family in danger.

“I—I—I drove, first. A while.”

“ _Drove?_ ” _How? She must be too young for that._

“Robb—he was teaching me. Mum and Dad were always at… at work. But I didn’t get very far, and I tried to go on the highways, but I couldn’t… I was too scared and—I stopped somewhere and I was trying to figure out the book, and I couldn’t because I was, I was _crying_ , and then I fell asleep in the car, and I only woke up three hours later. That was stupid of me, I know it was—”

“It wasn’t stupid, Sansa.” Brienne reaches over to hold Sansa’s hand again, but the girl doesn’t acknowledge her statement. “And then I,” Sansa keeps going, “in the morning I looked at the book again, and I got it, I thought I got it, so then I decided maybe I shouldn’t—the car could be tracked—”

Brienne looks at her sharply then. Why would a fifteen-year-old girl think about _that_? But Sansa doesn’t appear to notice Brienne’s confusion. “And I walked… to a bus station. I grabbed a map and—I took… three, three buses, four, maybe, I think I was going in circles, I wasn’t sure, I didn’t dare ask anyone. And when I thought I got close enough, I—I started walking again.”

“It was almost midnight by the time you got here, Sansa,” Brienne tells her, but Sansa just picks at the covers. At least she’d inadvertently taken such a circuitous route that it wouldn’t have been easy for anyone to follow her. _Would it?_ “Did anyone follow you, Sansa?” Brienne asks, trying to suppress the agitation in her voice. “Did you notice anyone following you?”

Sansa shakes her head vigorously, and Brienne feels some momentary relief. But this fifteen-year-old girl, in a state of shock and confusion, was wandering around the suburbs—the city for—for at least twenty-four hours. “I know I asked you this last night,” Brienne says slowly, “but I’m going to ask you one more time. Are you hurt? Did anyone hurt you?”

“No.” Sansa shakes her head again. “Not me.”

 _Gods, she’s lucky_ , Brienne thinks, before realising that’s a horrible, inaccurate thought. Sansa Stark isn’t lucky at all. Sansa Stark has just lost her entire family. _Not me_ , she’d said. _They’d hurt everyone else, but not me._

“Sansa. Do the police know? About your family?”

“No—I, I don’t know.” Fresh tears roll down her cheeks. “I couldn’t call them, I—”

“Why not?” Brienne asks cautiously. She’s starting to have some idea why, but she needs Sansa to say it herself. “I know your mother told you to come here, but why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t you go to your neighbours for help?”

“How, how could I?” Sansa replies, confused. “They’d find out about—about us, wouldn’t they?”

 _She can’t possibly know._ “What… what do you mean?”

Sansa pulls the covers towards herself protectively, and shifts away from Brienne. As if she’s utterly terrified that she’s made a huge mistake by coming to this house.

“Aren’t you… not from here too?”

* * *

When Jaime comes home around noon—besides taking over Brienne’s appointment, he only has to work in the evening today—he makes his way up to the bedroom. He can hear the shower running, but the footsteps near the door sound like Brienne’s, so he knocks. True enough, it’s Brienne that opens the door a crack.

“How is she?” Jaime asks through the gap.

Brienne casts a glance in the direction of the bathroom, before looking back at him. “She’s a wreck, mostly, and she still won’t tell me what happened, other than…” Her fingers grip the door, tight. “They’re all dead, Jaime. Ned, and Catelyn, and Robb too.”

“Seven hells— _dead_? All of them?” The news isn’t entirely unexpected—Sansa was all on her own, and there was that blood on the book—yet it’s still shocking to hear it out loud, that the rest of the Starks are gone. He’d hoped, perhaps, that Ned and Catelyn just got held up on one of their missions, that all would be fine in the end and they’d come for their daughter eventually, but whatever the girl knows, there doesn’t seem to be any question that they’re dead. And their son too. _Fuck._ “She didn’t say how? An accident, or—”

Brienne shakes her head. Sansa probably didn’t elaborate, but it’d be foolish to think it was an accident, he knows.

“There’s more.” Brienne slips out of the door then, and closes it behind her. “She _knows_ , Jaime. About where we come from. About the Centre.”

“ _What?_ ” And then Jaime suddenly remembers what Catelyn had said when they’d first met, about how the Centre had suggested that she and Ned start training Robb. The argument he’d had with Ned after. So they must have gone ahead with those orders, and started on Sansa too. _Blinded by loyalty._

“I don’t think Sansa knows the… the full story. Or had much training. But she knows who her parents work— _worked_ for. She figured out… She asked—” Brienne knits her brow. “She asked if we’d told the Centre already.”

“Does she want us to?”

“No—she seems, she seems afraid of that. I don’t know why. She won’t say.”

Jaime sighs. “We made the right call then. Not to tell them.” They’d have to keep this secret, on top of everything else. On top of everything he’s already having to keep from his brother—how much he wants to leave, and how impossible he knows that is.

“We have nowhere to take her, Jaime. We can’t even use a safe house, if we need to keep this from the Centre until we figure out what the fuck is going on. She has to stay here, and I don’t know how we’re going to fit her in—”

“We’ll figure something out,” he tries to assure her, though he has no clue how they will do that. They could clear out part of the basement, or there’s the one odd-sized room they’re using as a storage closet. A mattress would probably fit in either one. But both sound like equally depressing options for a fifteen-year-old girl who’s just lost her whole family.

“And the kids,” Brienne adds.

“What about them?” Jaime says in alarm. “You think they’re not safe?”

“No—no, I was just going to say, we can’t—we’d have to introduce her as someone else to the twins, if not Pod too. I already told her to think about a name, before she went into the shower. Something she’d be able to remember, and respond to.”

“How did she get here? Does she know if she was followed?”

“No. No one followed her. She came here by car, bus, on foot. And I think she got lost quite a few times.”

“Do you think the police will be looking for her?”

“Shit. Probably.” Brienne leans back, winces as she bangs her head against the door. “How would they track her here, though?”

“I don’t know. Fuck, we can’t let her out of the house, Brienne. What if… what if this gets on the news?” Jaime doesn’t even want to think about that at all, but there’s a very real chance that it’ll happen. “We have to keep her indoors, but even then—what if the neighbours see? And we can’t keep her from the kids.”

“We need to change her appearance, now. Her hair. It’s the most recognisable. Glasses.”

“Okay. Okay.” They’re small changes, but these small changes are what he and Brienne have built all their disguises on. “I’ll run to a store, buy some hair dye. I should be able to get back before I have to pick up the kids from school.”

“Bring them for ice cream or something before you come back later. Just give us some extra time to get ready.”

“What will we tell them? The twins?” They could tell Pod some of the truth, but they need to agree on a story for the twins.

“What we told them about Pod.” The shower stops running then, and Brienne puts her hand on the doorknob, ready to twist it open. “She has no home. No family. She needs our help.”

“Alright.” Jaime places his hand over hers where it rests on the doorknob. “Are you okay? I know you and Catelyn—”

“I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t think it’s really set in for me.”

Then she opens the door, and goes back inside.

* * *

_Alayne_ , Sansa had told Brienne. Alayne Stone will be her name. She’d come out of the shower and announced it, without any further explanation. Brienne knows it’s best that she refers to Sansa as Alayne from now on, even in her head, but the erasure doesn’t sit well with her at all. The girl had already gone through enough.

Her hair is dark brown now, and shorter too. Sansa— _Alayne_ had cried as Brienne applied the dye to her hair, and even more when Brienne had cut a few inches off. Brienne hadn’t known what to say besides how sorry she was, and how it wouldn’t take much longer. She’d never been precious about her physical appearance, and she can’t even remember the last time she’d grown her hair anywhere past her shoulders, but she tried to find it in herself to sympathise with the girl. Alayne had such beautiful hair, and it looked so much like Catelyn’s. Perhaps she cried because she was changing the part of herself that most reminded her of her mother. Because she could no longer see her mother reflected in the mirror.

When she brings Alayne downstairs, the rest of the family is already seated around the dining table. While Tommen looks at Alayne with the same earnest curiosity he had shown to Pod three or so years ago, Myrcella’s expression doesn’t seem quite so warm. Brienne can’t say she blames her daughter. At least they’d had time to prepare them for Pod’s arrival, and it was, to a certain extent, some sort of agreement between all members of the family. Alayne had simply… appeared this afternoon. Jaime said he’d try to talk to them about her over ice cream, but that was barely an hour ago.

“Where will she sleep?” Myrcella asks, very seriously, once Alayne is introduced. “There’s no room.”

“She, she can sleep in mine,” Pod offers. “I’ll sleep on the, the c-couch.”

“That’s not fair,” Myrcella exclaims.

“Myrcella!” Brienne scolds. “Don’t be rude to our guest.”

“That’s Pod’s room, Mum.” _Mum_. Gods, when did Myrcella stop calling her ‘Mummy’? “It’s _not fair_.”

“She can have my bed,” Tommen says, a bit desperately, probably more to dispel any potential conflict than anything. Before Myrcella can voice her displeasure again, Jaime cuts in. “I’m sleeping on the couch, and Mummy and Sa— _Alayne_ are going to share our room, at least for tonight. Okay? We will sort things out tomorrow.”

“It’s f-fine, really,” Pod assures them. “She can take my, my room. I’ll go ch-change the sheets now.”

“No,” Alayne jumps in, pushing awkwardly at her unfamiliar glasses. “Please, it’s fine—I can take the couch—”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be alone down here,” Brienne says. Before the discussion can continue, however, Myrcella groans, stands up from her chair, and stomps towards the stairs without excusing herself. “Myrcella Lannister!” Jaime raises his voice, and Brienne shushes him. She looks at Alayne apologetically, then stands to follow Myrcella up to her room.

“Hey,” Brienne says gently, as she pushes open the door to see Myrcella sulking on her bed. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Brienne sits down beside her, but Myrcella just turns to face the other way. “I know it’s really sudden, with Alayne, but she has nowhere else to go. Her parents are—”

“We don’t have room,” Myrcella grumbles.

“We’ll make room. You and Tommen can stay right here, and Daddy and Pod and I will—”

“But what if it makes things worse?”

Brienne slips an arm around Myrcella’s shoulders. “What do you mean, _make things worse_?”

“Whatever it is—whatever you and Daddy are upset about all the time. And Pod too, sometimes.”

 _Oh no._ Brienne knows the twins had noticed, but she hadn’t realised it was affecting Myrcella this much. She rubs Myrcella’s back, coaxes her to lean on her shoulder. “We’re just stressed about work, honey. Don’t worry about all of that.” Brienne can feel the hollowness of these words, but they will have to tide her over this time. She’ll have to talk to Jaime first about how they can better manage the twins, or manage their own behaviour in front of the twins. But with Alayne here, and having to control the… the flow of information, and keep up with their work too, she doesn’t know if they’ll be able to give any more attention to the children. She’ll have to tell Jaime, regardless. Even if there’s nothing more they can do.

“I want you to be nice to Alayne, okay?” Brienne asks Myrcella. “Will you do that for me? She’s going to be—she won’t be feeling good, for a while.”

Myrcella wriggles out of Brienne’s arms then, and falls headfirst into her pillow. “Does this happen to a lot of other kids?” she asks, her voice slightly muffled in the cotton.

“What does?”

“Losing their mums and dads.” She flops over, and looks up at Brienne. “It happened to Pod, and it happened to Alayne.”

Brienne places a hand on Myrcella’s knee. “It does happen sometimes, to some kids. Not a lot of them, but some.”

Myrcella curls into a foetal position, and it only reminds Brienne that her daughter isn’t three, or five, or even seven years old anymore. “I hope you’ll stay with us forever. You and Daddy.”

Brienne wants to say something reassuring, wants to laugh lightly and say, _I can’t promise forever, but we’ll be here for a long, long time._ But she can’t even give Myrcella that much. She puts herself in dangerous situations all the time, and Jaime too. And Ned and Catelyn had—

“Move over,” she tells Myrcella, who shifts towards the wall. Brienne lies down beside her—they can both still fit, barely, and not for long—and she takes Myrcella into her arms. “Do you want to hear a story?”

“I’m almost _ten_ , Mummy,” Myrcella retorts. It’s ‘Mummy’ again, Brienne notices, and for a moment it feels like she can stop time.

“You’re _nine_. We can lie here in silence too, that’s absolutely fine with me.”

A few beats later, Myrcella whispers: “Will you tell me again—how you and Daddy fell in love?”

So Brienne does. It’s completely fabricated, this love story—it doesn’t involve an awkward first meeting in the General’s office, or confessions in a bathroom, or learning how to be a mother to twins she didn’t carry in her womb. It doesn’t involve the months, maybe years that it took her to realise she had fallen in love with Jaime, a man who was meant to be her husband in name only. But it’s a lie she’s told so many times—to the kids, to their neighbours, to the other parents—that when she narrates it to Myrcella now, she thinks it almost feels like the uncomplicated truth. She thinks, maybe, that she wishes it was.

(She wonders if Catelyn ever wished the same.)

* * *

_The search continues for fifteen-year-old Sansa Stark, the daughter of local business owners Eddard and Catelyn Stark, who were found brutally murdered in their home last week, along with their eighteen-year-old son Robb. Police discovered the gruesome scene upon responding to reports from the Starks’ employees and neighbours, who were concerned that they had not seen the family in days._

_Investigations are still ongoing, but the authorities remain mum on whether they have identified any persons-of-interest in the suspected home invasion gone wrong. They are appealing—_

“It wasn’t a fucking home invasion,” Jaime growls, easily drowning out the ten o’clock news—they’ve turned the volume down so low that it is all but mute. Besides, they’d already endured variations on this report ad nauseam for the last few days, on the radio too. But they’ve had to be so careful not to let the twins see or hear any of this. Alayne as well.

“ _Jaime_ ,” Brienne hisses, nudging his thigh with hers. “Keep your voice down.”

“Sorry,” he whispers, though he’s pretty sure he was quiet enough just now. “They keep saying it was a home invasion, and it wasn’t a home invasion.”

“We’re not sure about that.”

“Do we need to go over all the facts _again_? A few months ago, Catelyn Stark asked for a way to contact you. For her children to contact you. And you gave her that damn book. Then, San—”

“Alayne,” Brienne reminds him.

“Sorry. _Alayne_ ,” he corrects himself. Gods, it’s been a week and he’s still slipping, some spy he is. At least they haven’t had to explain her presence to any neighbours yet, since Alayne has been staying indoors. But he knows what to say. _Oh, she’s the daughter of a late family friend, and his wife—her mother, she just passed away after a long illness. She has no one else to take care of her, so we’re letting her stay with us for now._ The story shouldn’t arouse any suspicions, he hopes, considering they’ve already set a precedent by taking in Pod.

“Alayne came here,” Jaime jabs his finger lightly on her thigh, “with that book, and she’s barely said a word about anything in the past _week_ , beyond telling us that her family is gone. There’s no way this is just a home invasion. If the Centre is involved somehow—”

“We’re not sure about that either.”

 _They can’t_ still _be stuck on this point._ “She told you not to tell the Centre, Brienne. And _you_ were the one who told _me_ that Catelyn had presented us like, like some sort of alternative. Like she seemed unsure if the Centre would take care of the kids.”

“Jaime, it was just a—a feeling—”

“If you were so sure that the Centre had nothing to do with it, you wouldn’t have lied to Tyrion and said we didn’t know anything.”

“That was—” Brienne starts to defend herself, then stops when they hear a door open upstairs. Jaime grabs the remote and switches off the television. They sit together in silence as they hear someone descend the stairs, and when that person reaches the ground floor, they arch their necks in unison to see who it is.

“Sorry—” it’s Alayne— “I—I just came down to get some water.” She’s twisting her fingers nervously in her dark brown hair.

“Of course,” Brienne says warmly. “No need to apologise.”

They turn back towards the switched-off television as Alayne moves into the kitchen. Jaime points a finger to his scalp, a reminder to Brienne to dye Alayne’s roots, and she nods. Then, they simply face forwards, devoting all their energy towards _not_ watching the girl pour herself a glass of water. It’s far too obvious that she caught them in the middle of a conversation about her, but he supposes it’s not any more awkward than things have been in the past week. Jaime still doesn’t know how to act around Alayne, given her initial reaction to him, though she generally keeps to herself anyway. Brienne, too, has been walking on eggshells—more because she doesn’t want to push Alayne to talk if she’s not ready. And they can’t do anything until she’s ready to talk.

Glass filled, Alayne walks back towards the stairs, then pauses. She turns, and takes a few steps towards them instead. “I… I feel bad about… taking Pod’s bedroom,” she mumbles, when they arch their necks towards her again. “Maybe I should try—”

“Don’t worry,” Brienne assures her. “Pod will tell us if he’s not comfortable.”

Alayne just nods tentatively, and makes her way back up the stairs.

“Pod _won’t_ tell us if he’s not comfortable,” Jaime says, once they hear the door close. The boy had insisted on giving up his bedroom, so they’d cleared out the storage closet enough to fit a small mattress in there, and moved everything else into the garage. He refuses to say that it’s miserable, but Jaime is sure that it is. He’s seen Pod out on the couch a couple times already when he’s had to wake up early, or when he comes back from a mission late at night.

“I don’t know what else we can do,” Brienne sighs, as she traces the knuckles of Jaime’s left hand with her right. “I want her to feel safe so she’ll start talking to us, and she won’t feel safe here on the couch alone, or shut up in a storage closet.”

“Maybe I should sleep on the couch again. Maybe she’ll talk to you in our room, if she has to share with you.”

“Maybe. Let’s give it a bit more time.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t try to… ask around? About what happened?” They can’t talk to anyone who might report back to the Centre, but he could put on a disguise, talk to one of the Starks’ neighbours, an over-sharing police officer. _Something_ , something more than all this waiting.

“I don’t know. If we didn’t have to protect her, I’d say yes. But now…”

Jaime puts the heel of his palm to his temple, and slides it down his cheek. “Gods, Brienne. We don’t even know what we’re protecting her _from_.”

* * *

Brienne is exhausted. She is standing on the porch this evening, staring at the front door, and thinking only about how exhausted she is. She doesn’t want to resent Alayne, she really doesn’t—and she owes Catelyn this much, if Catelyn felt her daughter was in danger—but she’s exhausted. She’s exhausted from worrying, from keeping secrets. She’s exhausted from waiting for Alayne to talk. She’s exhausted from expecting to cry about Catelyn, and somehow not being able to.

(She’s exhausted from holding in all these suspicions she doesn’t want to have about the Centre.)

But she pushes all that exhaustion down. That’s what she does, what she’s supposed to do. She unlocks the door—

and finds Alayne, not locked in Pod’s room like she’s been for almost two weeks, but sitting at the dining table with Pod, his homework spread out in front of them. Homework he’s supposed to be _doing_. Except he seems more preoccupied with talking to Alayne, who is cuddling Bear in her arms.

Brienne is too surprised to feel exhausted now.

She almost jumps when Jaime appears by her side, seemingly from nowhere. “I think Pod might have a crush,” he sing-songs in her ear, and gives her a welcome-home kiss on the cheek.

“Inappropriate, Jaime.” An inappropriate, and possibly wrong, but potentially useful allegation. She doubts Alayne would share any details of what happened with Pod, but she looks pretty comfortable around him. Maybe there’s something in even their innocuous conversations.

Or maybe she _will_ tell Pod. He did build that trust with Hyle’s daughter, after all.

When Alayne returns to her room, Brienne sits down with the boy. Before she can even ask, he says, “She hasn’t said anything. About how they died.”

She smiles at him gratefully, and puts a hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Pod. For listening to her. And for letting her have your room.”

He blushes a little, and she can’t believe he’s seventeen already. “You did the same f-for me. It… it meant a lot to me. I thought she might want someone to, to do that for her.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” She inches her chair a little closer. “So, what have you been talking about?”

“Books. She, she likes to read, and I have all those b-books in my room.” He taps his pen on his textbook. “I think—I think she just wants to escape. For now.”

“Mm. You’re probably right.”

“Oh, and she told me about her name.”

“Her name?”

“About where she got the name A-Alayne. She said… when she was young, she loved fair-fairy tales. And she used to write these stories. About a princess trapped in a, a castle. Waiting for—for her true love.” Pod blushes even more furiously as he says this, and Brienne thinks Jaime might be right, that he might have a crush on her after all. “Her name was Alayne. The—the princess.” He lets his pen fall out of his hands then. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s—that’s very useful.”

“That’s okay.” She squeezes Pod’s arm. “It means she trusts you. Just let her come to you.”

He nods. “She also… she said she has night-nightmares. Not—she doesn’t… tell me what they’re about. Just that, that she has them.”

“Oh.” _Shit, maybe she_ should _share a room with Alayne after all._ “Did it seem like she needed… company? At night?”

“No. I th-think she’s… embarrassed.”

“Okay. Will you let her know she can knock on our door? Tell her we won’t mind.”

He nods again, then perks up. “Oh! Um. She likes… she likes lemon cakes. Maybe it’ll—it’ll—” Then his face falls. “Sorry—that’s so silly.”

“No. No, it isn’t.”

 _Lemon cakes._ At this point, they’ll try anything.

* * *

As he carries his haul from the bakery into the house, Jaime can’t quite believe they’ve stooped to this. He can’t believe they’ve stooped to petty bribery to get the girl to talk. But Brienne had suggested they try it, so here he is, with a box of lemon cakes, of all things. They’re not supposed to say Pod told them, since they can’t let her think Pod broke her confidence. Jaime is just supposed to casually bring it home, and leave it in the kitchen. But Alayne is a smart girl, and he thinks she’ll see through their scheme. Well, at least she’ll get a treat out of it.

(A part of him longs for missions as simple and innocent as this. Lemon cakes, then information. Nothing further.)

“I bought cake!” he calls out, and the twins immediately come running down the stairs. And Bear too, for some bizarre reason, though he’s definitely _not_ going to let the cat have a taste. Alayne just looks at him curiously from where she’s sitting on the couch with Pod.

“What kind?” Tommen asks earnestly.

“Lemon cakes,” Jaime announces, putting the box on the kitchen counter. He sees Alayne get up from the couch out of the corner of his eye.

“Ugh,” Myrcella wrinkles her nose. “You know I hate lemon cakes, Daddy.”

“Don’t worry, I remembered.” He opens the box. “I bought you something else.” And then, quick as he can, he dips his finger in the box, then reaches over to smear a bit of whipped cream across Myrcella’s nose.

“Ew!” she exclaims, but starts giggling too, and tries to wipe her nose on Jaime’s shirt. He jumps out of the way before she succeeds, but she has that look of determination on her, and launches herself at him, burying her face in his belly.

“I’m telling your mother when she gets home,” he mock-whines, even as he embraces his daughter. He’s vaguely aware of Alayne lingering nearby, so he turns to her and says, “Help yourself. I bought more than enough.”

She gives him a small smile, which is the most he’s gotten from her in the two weeks she’s been in this house.

Later, when the twins have eaten their fill, they drag Pod out of the house to gods-knows-where. Alayne looks in the direction of the front door enviously, but she knows full well that she can’t step outside. Which leaves her and Jaime alone at the dining table, each of them sipping from their respective mugs. Usually, when he’s the only one in the house with her, she just locks herself in Pod’s room. But she stays at the dining table now, and—Seven above, did the lemon cakes actually _work_?

“You’re very kind,” Alayne observes, after they sit in silence for a while. “And loving. My dad was like that, with us.”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t _just_ the lemon cakes. It was how he’d been interacting with the kids, too. Brienne was right about giving Alayne space, and making her feel safe, though Jaime had found himself questioning this approach over the past couple of days. It’s been so difficult already to keep up with the work—and with what happened to the Starks, he’s more wary of the Centre than ever—that he scarcely has the patience to tiptoe around Alayne whenever he’s at home. If only they could read her mind.

 _You’re very kind. And loving._ He gives the girl a half-smile, even as he tries to get over the surprise of her speaking to him, as well as what she’d actually said _._ Never in a million years would Jaime expect to be called _kind_ and _loving_ by anyone other than his wife and children, let alone compared favourably to Ned Stark. So he says the only thing he can think to say:

“Well, he didn’t like me very much, your father.”

Because that is clearly the best way to get the girl to talk—tell her how much her father hated him.

“Why not?” Alayne asks, then her eyes go wide. “I’m—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, that’s fine. I brought it up.” Jaime takes a sip of his coffee. “Your father just had some… misunderstandings about my character. About something I did a long time ago. And I didn’t think there was a point in clearing that up.”

She nods. “I guess I misunderstood too,” she murmurs absently.

Jaime frowns at her. “You mean—the first night?” When Alayne nods, he says, “But you didn’t know about me, did you?”

“No. It’s just—” Alayne bites down hard on her lip, and looks down into her mug. Jaime has the feeling that she’s finally about to tell him something important— _him_ , not Pod, or Brienne—and he wishes his wife were here, not sitting in some car somewhere, probably bored out of her mind on her stakeout. He’s good at teasing information out of marks, but not like this. Alayne Stone is not a mark, and Brienne would be so much better at listening to her. He thinks of what Brienne would do. She’d wait, probably. Wait for Alayne to speak.

“You look…” she eventually says, “you look a lot like… like him. Or maybe he looks a lot like you. I… I thought you were him at first.”

“Who?”

Alayne adjusts, readjusts the mug between her hands, but doesn’t speak again for ages. Jaime is about to give up on learning the identity of this ‘him’—maybe Brienne will have better luck asking about it later—when Alayne places the mug down on the table. He thinks she might—no, she still isn’t talking. Maybe he should—

“Sansa,” he urges, and she jerks her head up. There’s no one around to hear him use that name, so he repeats it. “Sansa—who are you talking about?”

When it comes, her answer is barely audible.

“The man… the man who killed my family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know I’ve been avoiding cliffhangers more or less, but it just works better with this part of the fic. I swear this story will be finished by the end of this month, so you won’t have to wait too much longer.
> 
> The Stark Arc (hah) is based on the overarching plot of Season 2 of The Americans, but condensed and cut off from the Centre. Don’t read about that season if you don’t want to be spoiled, although I’m doing a twist on the twist to better fit the characters here. Of course, Ned/Cat/Robb being murdered is meant to be analogous to Ned’s execution + the Red Wedding.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	28. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m SO SORRY it took me ages, I just hit crisis after crisis with this chapter. I’m so close to the end though!!! 3-4 more chapters at most, including an epilogue! 
> 
> I added an Implied/Referenced Abuse tag to this, by the way, for an isolated incident in this chapter. If you are one of the people who guessed the person Sansa was referring to last chapter, then you know he’s really a whole trigger warning in himself.

Apart from her husband and her children, there are very few constants in Brienne Lannister’s day-to-day life. Her time has always been governed by the demands and complexities of her missions, which makes every single day a necessary readjustment from the day before.

One thing she’s come to count on, however, is the simple pleasure of soaking in a tub after a long stakeout. It’s a habit she picked up from Jaime; a window of time carved out and reclaimed as her own. It had taken her ages to get past the lingering guilt—she hadn’t been sure if the act of sitting-and-watching earned her such a reward—but she’d eventually allowed herself this one small luxury. Even with all that’s happened, even with Sansa Stark stumbling onto their porch two weeks ago, Brienne had wanted to hold onto this constant, selfish as it might be.

But there will be no long bath tonight, though she’s spent her entire day conducting surveillance. She knows this as soon as she steps into the house, and sees the dark look on Jaime’s face, the sullen way he’s setting the table for dinner, the furtive glances Pod and the twins keep shooting in his direction. Even Bear, who tends to nip at their ankles during mealtimes, is keeping a safe distance.

Something happened.

“Where’s Alayne?” she asks, brightly as she can, as if she’s noticed nothing amiss.

“She says… she isn’t hungry,” Pod answers. “She won’t… she won’t come out of the room.”

That isn’t particularly surprising—Alayne had barely left Pod’s room for the first week—but she’d been more willing to at least have meals with them in the past few days, and Brienne had hoped they might be getting somewhere with her. _Too many lemon cakes_ , she expects Jaime to quip, _spoiled the girl’s appetite._ He hadn’t thought much of the idea when she’d suggested it, though she’d explained that it wasn’t about the lemon cakes at all, just about providing Alayne with something familiar. And he’d grumbled this morning when she reminded him to swing by the bakery. But Jaime doesn’t say a thing now, quip or otherwise. He only motions for Brienne to sit down.

Something _happened_.

Dinner is a much more subdued affair than usual, and Jaime hardly eats. Afterwards, he doesn’t even wait for the table to be cleared before he tugs Brienne by the arm and drags her down to the basement. Yet, despite his urgency, he can’t seem to bring himself to speak for the first few minutes. She sits on the stairs, four steps up from the floor, and watches him open his mouth, close it again; turn towards her, turn away.

“What is it, Jaime?” she finally asks. “She said something, didn’t she?”

He nods, and leans his forehead against a wall. “She said—” he heaves a sigh— “she said the man who did it—the man who killed her family—she said he looks a lot like _me_.”

Brienne just stares at him for a long while. That information means nothing to her, not at first, and she can’t see why it would bother Jaime this much. It’s not as if Alayne accused him of anything, though it explains why she’d reacted so strongly to Jaime on the first night. “…That’s it?” Brienne pushes, when Jaime doesn’t elaborate. “That’s all she said?”

He comes towards her then, kneels on the ground before her. “You don’t understand,” he says, and there’s something wild in his eyes. “It’s—it has to be—it’s my _son_.”

His son. His _son_. His _first_ son. She’d rarely thought about him over the years, though she’d known of him practically from the beginning. Besides telling her his son existed, and that he was brought up primarily by his father, Jaime had spoken so little of him, possessed practically no affection for him at all. Called him _a cruel child_ , once, and it had sent chills down her spine. The boy shared Jaime’s blood, but he had never been _his_ ; not the way the twins are, or even Pod.

“Are you sure?” Brienne says. Her left foot taps a staccato on the step beneath it. “How is that possible—he’s _here_? Tyrion should have told us—he’s never said—”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. It has to be him.”

“We can’t know that, Jaime. It could still be—it could be anyone—”

“Sansa _said_.” He doesn’t bother to use her alias, and Brienne tries not to flinch after two weeks of avoiding that name. “Not that he was my son, but—she seemed so sure of the resemblance. And he’s always been… when I last saw him, he looked—he really did look like me. Like my cousin.”

It wasn’t just blood that Jaime and his son shared, then, but a face as well. She tries to picture a younger version of her husband, but _cruel_. She finds it difficult, at first—Jaime can be harsh, and cold, but never truly _cruel_ —and then she thinks of the one time she was in the same room as Jaime’s cousin, and suddenly it all falls together.

(She tries to forget something she’s never dared bring up with Jaime—how he and his cousin looked so much alike, too. She tries to forget how it had disturbed her. Jaime and his cousin had been so young when their relationship began, and Brienne could imagine how they might have mirrored each other in their youth. Then they had a son, and later, the twins. Yet—that woman had—she’d almost _hit_ Jaime, and he’d said it wasn’t the first time—and, gods, the way he’d described her reaction to the loss of his hand… Still, Jaime had remained tethered to his cousin for so long, tethered to what little she deigned to give him. Brienne could never fully understand it, but at least she’d thought about it less and less over the years. And now…)

Brienne puts a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, pulls him towards her to coax him off his knees, and he sits down heavily two steps below her. “Alright—alright,” she says. “Assuming it _was_ him. How old is he now? How is he _here_?” _The twins are not even ten—_

“Twenty,” Jaime replies, then shakes his head. “No, twenty-one. We had him when we were—we had him young.”

 _Twenty-one._ She was twenty-two when she arrived here. It wasn’t beyond reason that he’d be out in the field already, especially if the General had been training him the way he’d trained Jaime. “But why would he—what motive would he have to kill the Starks?” Brienne asks. “He can’t have been acting on the Centre’s orders.” Gods, the Starks were always so _loyal_. She can’t believe they could have done anything that would warrant them being… removed. And the way it was done— _messy_ , and now it was all over the news…

“I don’t know,” he repeats. His left hand is in his hair, pulling tightly on the strands. “I don’t know what the _fuck_ is going on. But he—he can’t have come here without the Centre. Whether he’s at the embassy, or—or like us—”

“Sansa didn’t say anything else about it?” Some other clue, _any_ clue.

“No—it took me a long time to even get that out of her, and then the moment she said it she panicked. Ran up to her room and hasn’t come out since.”

There’s an itch in the back of Brienne’s mind, a question she’s been thinking about since the first news reports came out. “If,” she whispers, “if it really _was_ him, and he was able to kill Ned and Catelyn, why do you think Sansa’s still alive? Why was she allowed to escape?” Jaime doesn’t reply beyond a shake of his head, not that she was expecting him to have an answer. _None of it makes any sense._ If Jaime’s son was capable of killing two well-trained officers with decades of experience, then Sansa shouldn’t have been a problem for him at all. It seems so _sloppy_.

That, or it was intentional. It seemed like—a message. Like he was sending a _message_. But to _whom_? Is that why he wanted it public, wanted it all over the news? The Centre had to be involved, and what would they achieve by doing _that_? There shouldn’t be any way for the Starks’ true identities to be uncovered, but their murder still puts the entire Programme at risk. Unless—the Centre wasn’t involved at all? But how would he have gotten close to them in the first place?

 _None of it makes any sense_. It was just question, upon question, upon question.

Then, Brienne’s stomach drops.

“Jaime.” She grips his shoulder again, and she can feel her nails digging into his flesh. “If your son is here—if he knew the Starks—if he, he was really the one who killed them—does that mean he’ll be able to find you? Would he be looking for us, for the children?”

Jaime whips his head towards her. “It’s been _weeks_ since they were killed—if he was looking for us, why would he wait? Why would he have gone for the Starks first?”

It’s true, that doesn’t make any sense. But _none of it makes any sense_. Seven, _was the message for Jaime?_ No, it can’t be—there wasn’t any clear link between them and the Starks, and Jaime wasn’t close to them at all—but Brienne can’t shake this fear that _they might be next._ None of it makes sense, yet three people are dead already, and it might not stop there. Their children—

Brienne stands, and heads up the stairs towards the door. “We have to get Sansa to talk. _Now_.”

* * *

When they emerge from the basement, Jaime is relieved to see that the kids are still watching television in the living room—they’ll need absolute privacy with Sansa. Brienne is already making her way up the stairs, her hand gripping the handrail tighter with each step, but Jaime pauses to wave Pod over from where he’s sitting on the couch.

“Keep them down here as long as possible, will you? We need to talk to her. And careful of the—”

“The news, I, I know,” Pod says under his breath. “I will.”

“Thank you, Pod.” Jaime pats him on the arm, then glances at the dining table, empty of the dirty dishes they had left behind. “And thank you for clearing up, too.”

“You’re—you’re welcome. Is everything… okay?”

Jaime just pats Pod on the arm again, and heads upstairs. When he catches up with Brienne, he reaches for her wrist before she can make it to the door.

“Should we tell her first?” he suggests, leaning in close. “About—my son.”

“Would it scare her?”

“Probably. But if we wait till after—it feels like it’ll be…” _Manipulative. Dishonest. Wrong._ “Maybe if we’re upfront about it, about why we need to know _now_ , she’ll be more likely to talk.”

This is manipulative in its own way, Jaime realises. It puts pressure on Sansa to safeguard _their_ family, people she’s known for only two weeks, against a threat they can’t even entirely comprehend. But his gut says telling her first will be the better option—offer her the truth, even if it doesn’t make _hers_ come easier afterwards.

Brienne nods in agreement, and he releases her wrist so she can knock on the door. “Alayne,” she calls, as she raps her knuckles against the wood. “Alayne. It’s really important that we speak with you. Please, open the door.”

They can hear footsteps shuffling closer, but the door stays locked. Brienne looks at Jaime and rotates her hand, miming the turning of a key. But he shakes his head, and says through the door: “ _Sansa_ —Sansa, please. Will you let us in? We don’t want to have to use the key. Can you let us in, please?”

For a while, there’s no sound, no more movement on the other side of the door. Just as Jaime’s about to give up on waiting, the doorknob turns, and Sansa opens the door just wide enough for them to see half her face. She’s pale, and can’t meet their eyes. She looks like she’s been crying again. She looks like she did on that first night.

“Sansa,” Brienne whispers, “We know—we don’t want to push you. But we need to know what happened. There’s a… a chance we may need to protect our family. Our children.”

Sansa inhales sharply. “Why? You think he’ll come here? You think he’ll be able to find this place?”

“We don’t know. But if you tell us what happened, maybe we can stop him from… from hurting more people.”

Beyond a tremble in her lip, Sansa barely reacts at first. Then, as if to no one in particular, she murmurs: “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

 _Her fault?_ Jaime shares a look with Brienne at those words, then turns back to Sansa. “Will you let us in?” he pleads again, without addressing her odd confession. “There are—there are things we need to tell you too.”

Reluctantly, Sansa steps back from the door. Jaime pushes it open, slips into the room with Brienne, and locks the door behind him. Brienne takes a seat at Pod’s desk, while Jaime stands beside her; they watch as Sansa retreats to the bed, and hugs her knees into herself.

“Sansa,” Brienne starts, once Sansa seems settled enough. “Jaime told me what you said. That the man who killed your family looks a lot like him. Is that true?”

Sansa nods, then hurriedly says, “I didn’t mean to imply—that, that Jaime was somehow responsible—”

“No, no, that’s not what we think at all,” Brienne assures her. But Jaime has the thought that if his son really did it, really killed the Starks, then he _was_ in some way responsible. Not just by fathering the child in the first place, but by being absent after, and failing to stop his son from—to stop the General from—

(He tries not to wonder if his father, in raising the boy, had been determined to compensate for something he deemed lacking in Jaime. Perhaps the General judged Jaime too much of a bleeding heart, deep down, and sought to rectify—to _preempt_ that flaw in Jaime’s son.)

“Listen, Sansa.” Jaime places a hand on Brienne’s shoulder as he says this, and she reaches up to interlace her fingers with his. “There’s something you should know. And this—I promise you, we had no part in what happened at all, whatever happened to your family. But I…” He feels himself grimace. “I have another son. A son I didn’t get to raise. I think—”

“He’s yours.” Sansa doesn’t need him to spell it out for her. “Oh gods, he’s—Joff… Joffrey’s _yours_.”

 _Joffrey._ So Sansa knows _him_ , not just _how he looks_ —knows him by his cover here at least. Brienne tenses beneath Jaime’s hand; she noticed it too, that Sansa could identify the killer by name. _Joffrey._ Jaime doesn’t say it out loud at first, but he balances this name on his tongue, and it seems to expand in his mouth, a mass of cotton wool pushing against his palate, the insides of his cheeks. It’s strange, this alias the Centre had invented for his son; there is a kind of softness to the edges of its syllables that is so at odds with the boy he remembers, so unlike the name that boy had been given at birth. Then again, Jaime hasn’t spoken his son’s real name in years, and there is a strangeness to that name too, now that it’s crawled up his throat from some forgotten place between his ribs, and nestled itself alongside _Joffrey. Joffrey’s yours._

“That’s… that’s what we suspect,” Brienne replies first. She doesn’t draw attention to the name. “We’re not sure. But we’re concerned he’ll come looking for us, for our family. So it’s really important that we know what happened. The truth.”

“The truth,” Sansa echoes. She hugs her arms a bit tighter around her knees.

“Again, I swear to you we had nothing to do with this,” Jaime continues. “And we’d—Brienne had promised your mother we’d take care of you, if you ever came to us like you did. If you don’t feel like you can trust me after what I’ve just told you, I can walk out that door right now. But you _have_ to tell Brienne what happened. So we know how best to protect you, and our kids too.”

“But he hasn’t come here. It’s, it’s been _weeks_ and—he hasn’t come looking so far.”

The way Sansa says this—the desperation in it. It almost sounds like—Jaime can’t understand why, but it sounds like Sansa’s _begging_ them not to make her reveal the truth. _It’s all my fault_ , she’d said. How could that be possible?

Then, Brienne stands from her seat, and walks towards the bed. “Is it okay if I sit with you?” she asks gently, and Sansa nods. “And is it okay if Jaime stays?” she adds. There’s a long pause this time, before Sansa nods again. Jaime lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, slips into the now-vacant chair, and waits. Sansa may have chosen to reveal one vital piece of information to him, but it’s Brienne who should take the lead now. He knows this. He knows that Brienne knows this too. He hates that they know this not because of how they speak to Myrcella, or Tommen, or Pod, but because of every single interaction they’ve had over the years with each mark, or asset, or agent, or handler.

Now they use this knowledge on a fifteen-year-old girl, so she might tell them how his son left her the only surviving member of her family.

“What exactly did your parents tell you,” Brienne says, “about the work we do for the Centre?”

“They only told me it was—it was dangerous. That they didn’t want me anywhere near it, at least not right now. That the Centre—that Joff had no right—”

And then Sansa claps her hands over her mouth, and squeezes her eyes shut. _Seven hells, what the fuck had the Starks gotten themselves into?_

“Okay.” Brienne replies, in her most soothing voice. “Okay. I know you’re strong enough to do this, Sansa. Your mother always told me she was so proud of you.”

Sansa puts her head in her hands. “I don’t deserve that. It was _my fault_ ,” she sobs. “Joff met _me_ first. I let him—I gave him the chance to—I thought I _loved_ him.”

 _Fuck._ Joffrey had—what had Joffrey _done_? She’s _fifteen_ —

“I promise, Sansa,” Brienne says, and Jaime can hear the effort it’s taking to keep her voice steady. “We’re not here to assign blame, okay? All we want is the truth. And we’re here for you, we’re here to support _you_. So, why don’t you start from the beginning?”

He knows Brienne is trying to be cautious, trying to let the girl fill in the blanks for herself. He knows he should trust Brienne to control this conversation. But he so badly wants to tell Sansa that if the Centre was involved, if Joffrey was acting on orders from the Centre, from the General, then _no, it isn’t your fault. It’s us. It’s how we’re taught to manipulate everything and everyone, to do terrible things to people who don’t always deserve them. Not for the sake of the country, the Centre, or the Cause, but for the men that control them all._

And then, before he can let this rashness overcome him—

Sansa talks.

It’s slow, at first—she doesn’t so much break her two-week silence as let it fracture—but once she finally gets going, she can’t seem to stop. She tells them about her parents, how they were good, and caring, but less and less present in recent years. How it had always been her and Robb, left to their own devices, until Robb had started disappearing too, and never telling her where he was going. (A result of his training, Jaime guesses, and feels the hair stand up on the back of his neck.) She tells them about the coffee shop she’d study at after school, sometimes with friends, sometimes on her own. Then, a few months ago, on one of those days she was alone, a golden-haired boy with emerald green eyes had started speaking to her. And on another day, and another. He introduced himself as Joffrey, but she could call him Joff, and he was so handsome, and he said he was in college—and he seemed interested in _her_. It was just talking, and coffee, and she was happy with that, until one day, they’d gone walking in the park, and—he’d kissed her. Her first kiss.

It hadn’t gone that much further than kissing, Sansa claims—Jaime feels thankful for that, and then sees the absurdity in feeling thankful, considering what happened after—but then their conversations started becoming… strange. Joff would talk about these beliefs he had, and all he was willing to do to make those ideals a reality, and at first it sounded interesting, and refreshing, even inspiring, and _isn’t it something worth sacrificing for? Wouldn’t you be interested in working for such a Cause?_ Which was fine, until it became _wouldn’t you do it for me? Don’t you love me?_ And the more he brought it up, the more it felt like he was on the verge of forcing her to do _something_ , though she didn’t know what, and there was also this—this aggression in the way he touched her sometimes (but maybe that was fine too; he said he loved her, didn’t he?), and then she began to realise there was some emptiness in the way he spoke about these things in which he claimed to believe, until one day she got tired of his pushing and she told him _stop, I don’t want to talk about that stuff anymore,_ and then he—

he slapped her.

She’d run all the way home, after, and she was crying, and her mother was there, and Sansa finally told her everything. Her mother was angrier than she’d ever seen. Told her she was never to see Joffrey again, to forget everything he’d ever told her. But the next week, that’s when her parents told her who they really were. They didn’t want to lie to her anymore. They told her, in as few words as possible, where they were really from, about their work for the Centre, and how their Cause was Joffrey’s too. And Robb—even Robb already knew, but they hadn’t wanted to tell her so soon, and not like this. The Centre had no right to send Joffrey to her. Sansa had felt so betrayed—by her parents, by Robb, by Joffrey. She spoke to none of them for weeks.

But then—it was so stupid, but _she missed Joff_. He’d hit her, but he’d become such a big part of her life, and _she missed him_. (Gods, Jaime understood that feeling too well, from a past life, a past love.) And then someone had—had slipped a letter into her bag, she wasn’t sure how, but it was a letter that turned out to be from Joff, and he told her he was so sorry, so sorry for hitting her, for lying to her, and he truly loved her, _please will you meet me at this place on Saturday, at this time? I miss you, Sansa. I don’t care about the Cause. I want to be with you. I love you._ When she decided to go, she wasn’t even sure why—half because she wanted to tell him never to contact her again, half because she did miss him, still loved him. But she’d waited all afternoon, and he never showed.

When she returned home that evening, determined never to think of Joffrey again, her family was—

No. Not all dead. Her mother was still alive, barely, though her throat had been… And she gave Sansa the key, the key on the chain that she always wore around her neck, the key that Sansa knew opened a safe in her parents’ bedroom, though she never knew what they kept inside it. Within that safe was a book, with a bookmark sandwiched between pages seventy-four and seventy-five, and strange markings in pencil, and a small piece of paper on which her mother had written a single name. She knew then that her mother was telling her to run, to run to someone called _Brienne_. So she changed out of her bloody clothes, and she grabbed the key to the car, and she _ran_.

Joffrey had spoken to her, one day in a coffee shop. Joffrey had told her he loved her. Joffrey had slapped her, then apologised in a letter, told her he loved her ten times over. Told her he wanted to be with her. Joffrey had begged her to meet him. Joffrey hadn’t shown. And then—

“If I hadn’t gone,” Sansa gasps, “if I had stayed home instead of meeting him that Saturday—I think he would have killed me too.”

* * *

_The message wasn’t for Jaime._

It dawns on Brienne that night, as she watches over a sleeping Sansa. The girl had collapsed—exhausted—after telling them all she knew, and Brienne had thought it best to stay with her, while Jaime left them alone. It had given her time to think.

The Starks—they weren’t killed because of Jaime. She’d thought Jaime must have something to do with it, if his son was responsible, even though the link between him and the Starks was tenuous. But Jaime had told her before, that his son— _Joffrey_ —had never been much attached to him, hardly even resented him for being so often away.

The message wasn’t for Jaime at all.

It was for _Sansa_.

Sansa, who had been lured from her home by Joffrey’s letter. Who would have died if she hadn’t done as the letter said. Whose life was spared by her decision, but who was punished anyway, in the most horrifying and sadistic way. Coming home to her whole family, dead, and if Brienne hadn’t given that book to Catelyn—

 _Punished_. Was Joffrey acting alone in this punishment, or under orders from the Centre? It seemed too twisted, too personal—and that was heinous in itself, that one man could have been responsible for this. But Sansa seemed to imply that Catelyn was… that her parents had some kind of conflict with the Centre. It must have been the Centre, the General, that had sent Joffrey here in the first place. Why would he have needed to go behind the Starks’ backs, just to recruit Sansa? They were already training Robb, weren’t they? Brienne had always understood the Starks’ decision to bring their children into the fold as a mutual agreement between them and the Centre. But if that was the case, then there would have been no need for Joffrey at all.

Does this mean that— _shit_ , does this mean that the Centre could do the same with the twins? Send someone to recruit them, without the express consent of Jaime and herself? Hells, they’d bent over backwards to keep the children out of it. They’d raised them with all the love they could give, provided them with every happiness. She can barely imagine Pod having to do all of what they do, even with his skills and his training. Myrcella? Tommen? She can’t bear the thought—and she doesn’t think she should have to. For Seven’s sake, they’d _decided_ , she and Jaime. That should be the end of it.

 _Shit._ They need answers. And they only have one avenue for those answers. Brienne hadn’t wanted to get Tyrion involved—Catelyn had entrusted Sansa to their care because she was worried about how the Centre would manage her children, Brienne is sure of that now—although the logistics of keeping Sansa safe and hidden in the long term was another matter. But she can’t see how else they can move forward, now that they know Sansa’s side of the story. If there is to be any justice for Sansa, any life for her beyond one spent imprisoned in the Lannister home as Alayne Stone—if they are to get any assurance that the Centre wouldn’t try to recruit Myrcella and Tommen—then they _have_ to make contact with Tyrion.

Maybe—if there was a chance that—if Jaime could approach Tyrion, not as their _handler_ , but as his _brother_ —

Brienne looks over to check on Sansa, who still seems sound asleep. Then, she steps out as quietly as she can, and returns to her room to find Jaime. She expects to see him in bed—it must be two, three in the morning—but he’s sitting in the armchair instead, in darkness, his form barely illuminated by the little light that is streaming in from the hallway, from the window. The bed isn’t empty, though. There’s three figures beneath the covers, two smaller than the third. There’s a fourth, too—Bear, curled up at their feet.

“Thought I’d let Pod sleep in a proper bed tonight,” Jaime whispers, when she walks towards the armchair. “The twins wanted to join, and I let Tommen bring Bear in. Hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it is.”

He reaches out and intertwines his fingers with hers. “I couldn’t sleep. But I didn’t want to leave them alone. I wanted—I _needed_ to—”

“I know.” Even sitting just two rooms away, she couldn’t help but worry about the kids. She imagines she is Sansa, who arrives home to find her whole family dead. She imagines she is Catelyn, who’d died not knowing if her daughter would be safe.

“She’s still asleep?”

“Yeah. Can we—can we talk? Downstairs?”

Jaime gets up from the armchair then, his hand still in hers, and they make their way down to the living room. But when they sit on the couch, all she wants to do is hold him, be held by him. She leans into him, wraps her arms around him, breathes him in. _Jaime._ Jaime who isn’t anything like his father, or his first son, or his cousin, or even his brother. Jaime who is her husband, and the father of her children. Jaime who is himself only, who is her entire world. _Jaime._

“I think,” Brienne says, after a long while, “I think we need to talk to your brother.”

She feels him stiffen in her arms. “Are you sure?”

“No. Not at all. But I don’t see any other choice. Do you… do you think he will listen as, as your brother? Do you think he’ll keep secrets from the Centre, if we ask him to?”

“I don’t know. But we can try, I suppose. Tomorrow?”

Brienne shakes her head. “Not unless he can meet us while the kids are at school. I don’t want them out of my sight otherwise.” There’s still this thought inhabiting one corner of her mind, that Joffrey might come looking. Or anyone else, for that matter. He’d just been a college boy in a coffee shop, when Sansa met him. “Might be too late to call a meeting now.”

“Mm. I’ll still send a message first thing in the morning. Do you think it’s wise to meet at the usual place?”

“Maybe outdoors would be best.” Their safe houses aren’t supposed to be bugged—there’s so many things discussed that they couldn’t risk being recorded—but she’s worried nonetheless. There’s also the possibility that Tyrion himself might come wearing a wire—

 _Fuck._ She can’t believe her mind is telling her to guard against the Centre like _this_.

“What do you think happened, Jaime?” Brienne changes the subject, though she’s keenly aware that she’s exchanging one paranoia for another. “Do you think the Centre really sent Joffrey to recruit Sansa?”

“I wonder—maybe something happened with Robb. Last we heard, Ned and Catelyn were open to training their children. We knew about their plans for Robb, and I’d assume they were planning to move forward with Sansa at some point, too.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. There’s no reason why the Centre would need to send someone for Sansa.”

She feels Jaime’s chest rise and fall beneath her cheek as he sighs. “You know what this means, don’t you? If the Centre didn’t seek their permission, the twins—”

“I know. _Damn it_ , Jaime.” Brienne breaks away from their embrace, but keeps her hands tightly fisted in his shirt. “I know, I _know_ you’ll think this is stupid, but I’m still hoping there was some kind of mistake. Some… miscommunication with the Centre, that led up to all of this.”

Jaime cups her cheek with his hand. “I _don’t_ think you’re stupid. I don’t know how all of this started, but I—I genuinely don’t think the killings were ordered by the Centre. It’s too—it’s far too conspicuous.”

“But… is it really possible that your son killed them all? On his own?”

“Gods.” His hand falls from her face, limp. “It’s pure savagery.”

They’d seen photos of the crime scene on the news. Cropped, blurred out, but what they could see was bad enough.

“You said your son was cruel, before,” Brienne reminds him. “And you said your father brought him up to be—”

“I know what I said. But it was—I don’t know, it wasn’t like _this_. I never thought it would turn out like _this_ , Brienne.” Jaime presses his stump into his forehead, kneads nervously at his temple. “I suppose—I’m guilty of leaving all that behind. Of washing my hands off of everything. But isn’t there… isn’t there a line between _cruelty_ and _savagery_? Hells, even _I_ knew that, back when I was—”

“Jaime.” She frames his face with both her palms, and sweeps her thumbs across his cheekbones. “ _Don’t_. Don’t you dare go back to that place.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever left that place, Brienne. I don’t think I—we— _can_ leave.” He tilts his head towards her, and—there’s such pain in his eyes. “Until… we _do_.”

She’d thought they had more time. It hadn’t been easy, especially since everything that had happened with Jorah, but they’d struggled along, and they’d persevered, and _she’d thought they had more time_. But that was before Sansa Stark had found her way to their house two weeks ago. They don’t even have the full story yet, Brienne tells herself—they only know what Sansa’s told them. Brienne wants to cling to this hope, that there’s some other explanation for all of this. There’s still a chance, a chance that a truth exists that they can live with.

Perhaps Ned and Catelyn Stark had thought the same—that there were truths that they could live with, that they had _chosen_ to live with. They’d believed in them so much that they had wanted to offer them to their children, too. And these truths, they’re also the truths they were prepared to die for.

But not like this.

_Gods—not like this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YUP. So. In the Season 2 finale of The Americans, it’s [SPOILERS] revealed that the family that was killed in the first episode of the season was really killed by the surviving son, Jared. I did NOT want to make Sansa the killer, obviously. But Jared _had_ been seduced by his handler, Kate, and that storyline lines up well with Joffrey and Sansa. Also, Philip did have a son (with his ex) that comes looking for him, but I didn’t think that storyline would work as well for Joffrey, so that’s really the barest of parallels.
> 
> There’s still a bit more to be revealed about how everything unfolded…
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	29. Appeals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally intended to be the third part of Chapter 28. And then it grew into… this. Which also means I may have to up the chapter count slightly. Again.

It feels like a cliché. They’ve arranged to meet Tyrion at a vacant lot in a declining industrial district, and the whole thing—spies exchanging secrets in the shadows of abandoned warehouses—feels straight out of a movie. Jaime knows from experience, of course, that such a setting is hardly the norm for them. Safe houses, public parks, the insides of cars, yes. But very rarely an abandoned warehouse.

Still, it feels like a cliché. Except, the conversation they’re about to have is anything but that. As embittered as he’s become with this life, Jaime finds himself wishing for its clichés, for the little predictability it has to offer. Let this be a conversation about some intelligence they have to gather, some person-of-interest they have to observe, some problem they have to eliminate.

But it will not be about any of those things. Or perhaps it will be about all of them. Perhaps what feels so foreign is the fact that at its core, this conversation will revolve around a son he hasn’t seen in almost ten years. A son who might have done something unspeakable, under the auspices of the organisation they all claim to serve.

“You couldn’t have picked somewhere more… comfortable?” Tyrion jests, as he approaches them.

Jaime meets Brienne’s eyes, and she gives him a look that’s some combination of hesitant and encouraging. They’d agreed that he has to be the one to steer the conversation—his son, his brother, his responsibility.

“Sorry about the choice of location.” Jaime waves his hand over the general vicinity. “We thought—we were hoping for some discretion.”

Tyrion looks around him. “Well, ‘discreet’ is certainly one word for it,” he says, with some bemusement. “Now, out with it. Tell me why you dragged me out here.”

“Alright,” Jaime sighs. “We… we have some information for you. And require some information in return. But—what we really need is for all this to, to stay between us.”

“Between us, meaning…?”

“None of this goes back to the Centre.”

“Ah,” Tyrion replies, his voice noticeably darker. “Well, I’ve never been a stickler for… detailed reports, but you know I have my obligations. If it’s as serious as this sounds—”

“It is. And I’m asking as your brother. Not as your agent.” It seems like an unreasonable demand, with their history, but Jaime forces himself to swallow this discomfort. “I know I don’t have much of a right to play that card—”

“Good gods, brother.” Tyrion’s eyes go wide. “Are you finally going to tell me you want to leave?”

 _Fuck._ Jaime hadn’t said a _thing_ to Tyrion about that. “No—I—no! I don’t—” he stammers, and _fuck._ His brother’s deduction, inaccurate though it is in this particular situation, has caught him completely off guard. Had he really been so obvious this past year? Tyrion hadn’t bat an eye when Jaime requested that break, and that was months back. Besides that, Jaime is positive he’s never mentioned anything to his brother. Hells, he hardly discusses it with _Brienne_ —it feels pointless to keep talking about it when they know they don’t have any viable options, even if they could ignore the fact that she isn’t quite ready to abandon the Cause. _Fuck._ Now Tyrion’s gone and _asked_ , just like that, and Jaime’s piss-poor attempt at denial was as good a confirmation as any other.

“Well, what _exactly_ is this regarding then?” Tyrion growls, in a way that suggests he won’t let the issue go so easily, now that it’s all but out in the open.

“The Starks,” Brienne cuts in, slipping an arm through Jaime’s, as if to steady him. It seems too early to reveal anything—Tyrion hadn’t yet promised them confidentiality—but she must be trying to distract from the other matter, at least for now. “That’s all we’re saying until we have your word that the Centre won’t hear about any of this,” she continues. “Not unless we all agree that that’s the best course of action.”

“The Starks,” Tyrion repeats flatly. “You told me you didn’t have any information.”

“We do.”

“From your… informal meetings with Catelyn?”

Brienne’s arm tightens ever so slightly around Jaime’s. “You know about those?”

“You might not choose to do so, Brienne—and I certainly don’t fault you for that choice—but other officers do tell their handlers about such things. Catelyn Stark kept hers well informed. Though why she trusted Petyr that much is beyond me.”

Jaime had almost forgotten the man’s existence until this moment. Petyr is the kind of man whose smile never reaches his eyes, whose words always seem to have other words buried beneath, and Jaime doesn’t have the patience for someone like that. They had met him only once, during a joint briefing, and he’d treated Jaime with the kind of deference that ambitious underlings had shown him back home. It had unnerved him that Petyr would do that even here, where Jaime’s status as son of the General meant little. A suspicion begins to form in his mind, but he wills himself not to jump to any conclusions right this moment. “Catelyn told Petyr some things,” he says to Tyrion instead, “but clearly not others, if he had to ask you to come to us for information.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “Petyr didn’t ask. I saw it on the news. I heard nothing from him, but I assumed the Centre would want to know if my agents had anything to contribute. Which, as it turns out, you _do_.”

“Your word, first,” Brienne says firmly.

“Of course I’ll bloody keep it from the Centre,” Tyrion replies, his irritation audible. “Don’t overestimate my fondness for the organisation.”

Brienne has never once overestimated Tyrion’s _fondness_ —or rather, she’s never quite understood how to define Tyrion’s loyalties. Jaime knows his brother thrives in the ambiguities that otherwise confound Brienne, but Tyrion yields to her this time. “Look. The Centre… _employs_ me,” he goes on to elaborate. “And I do my job. It just happens to be the only job I’ve ever known, and likely will ever know. But believe it or not, good-sister, I’d do my best to put my brother first if he asks me to. Despite… despite our past.”

Jaime bites down on his tongue, resisting the urge to express his regret once again. It would make it worse to do so—to break his brother’s practiced neutrality. Tyrion had been made aware of Jaime’s confession to Brienne, but it seemed to suit Tyrion to treat the incident with as much detachment as possible. The most direct he had ever been was to tell them once, in a remarkably dispassionate voice, that _the outcome of that affair was… undesirable. But I do understand, after all these years, that my brother had my interests at heart back then. His definition of those interests just happened to be informed by our father’s deception._

In place of a futile apology to his brother, Jaime glances at Brienne, and she gives him a short nod. It’s as good a promise as they’re likely to extract from Tyrion. They can’t be a hundred percent sure that he won’t reverse his decision once he hears what they have to say, but they’ll have to take that risk.

“So, now that we have that out of the way,” Tyrion declares with a huff. “Will you please be so kind as to reveal what Catelyn told you? And why you need me involved, if you didn’t plan to inform the Centre in the first place?”

“It… wasn’t Catelyn,” Jaime says, slowly. “It’s her daughter.”

Tyrion looks up at them in confusion. “Sansa? You know where she is?”

Jaime nods. “She’s… she’s with us.”

Tyrion’s confusion turns to shock, concern, even a slight anger. “ _What? How?_ ”

“Catelyn had… given her a way to find Brienne—with our consent—in the event that anything should happen to her and Ned. Without—” Jaime clears his throat— “without the Centre’s knowledge. She arrived the day after—after it happened. Hasn’t left our house since.” It sounds unbelievable, even to him, and they’re the ones who’ve had the girl in their home for more than two weeks.

Surprisingly, Tyrion skips over the fact that Catelyn—and Brienne—had intentionally kept this from the Centre. “And Sansa—she’s… okay?” he asks instead.

“Given the circumstances,” Brienne replies, her fingers readjusting their grip on Jaime’s arm. “But she’s traumatised, understandably. She… she found them, after it happened.”

“Seven hells.” Tyrion runs a palm across his scalp. “And—you’re hiding her, somehow? Your kids—”

“Pod knows who she is, but not the twins.” Brienne explains. “We gave her an alias. Dyed her hair. It’s not much, but… we couldn’t possibly keep her a secret from them.”

They watch as Tyrion opens his mouth, then closes it again. He walks away from them, stops; walks off to the side, stops again. Each step must bring a fresh wave of questions to his mind, and each pause yet another. Eventually, he turns and walks back to them. “So… so you’ve known the truth all this time?”

“No. She hardly spoke to us until two nights ago,” Jaime clarifies. “And it’s not the _whole_ truth. Just what she knows. That’s—that’s why we came to you. To fill in the blanks.”

“I suspect you know much more than I do at this point.”

“Even so,” Brienne counters, “You’re in a better position to get us some answers. We can’t draw attention to ourselves. Not when we have Sansa to think of now, and our kids.”

“I suppose—if you’re asking me to keep this from the Centre—you have some reason to suspect they will… not act in good faith.” Tyrion receives no response from either of them, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “Very well. What’s Sansa’s side of the story, then?”

 _Gods, where to begin?_ There is still the slim chance that the man who calls himself Joffrey might not be his son at all—they only have Sansa’s account to go on—so Jaime decides to withhold that part for now. “Someone was trying to recruit her,” he says first. “A few months back, and without her parents’ approval.”

Tyrion almost recoils. “Recruit _her_? She’s what, _fifteen_?”

So Tyrion _didn’t_ know about that. Or if he did, he’s a much better actor than Jaime remembers. Tyrion knows how to put on a front—how to use his wit to widen the distance between himself and everything else—but Jaime doesn’t think he could fake a reaction like this.

“Fifteen, yes,” Jaime confirms. Then he can’t help but mutter, “Older than us when we started. Not that it makes it—”

“No. In any case, we’re… anomalies, brother. As far as I’m aware, there were no plans for Sansa at this time.”

“But we know they were training Robb already—”

“Yes. Shit. I’d heard that they—” Tyrion stops abruptly, folds his lips between his teeth, then releases them again. “I’d heard that the Starks were having some… trouble with that. Robb was… It wasn’t progressing in a way that satisfied the Centre, let’s just say. There may have been a girlfriend involved, among other issues.”

 _Well, that’s something Tyrion knows, and not them._ “You think it was bad enough that it would warrant some intervention?” Jaime asks.

“I didn’t think so. Growing pains, and so on, and he was still a teenager. I don’t know what the Centre was expecting. Even if Ned and Catelyn were willing, the boy has a mind of his own.”

“Catelyn never mentioned any issues with Robb,” Brienne says softly, as if thinking out loud to herself. “Although—she’d asked me about Pod, a couple of times. About what the Centre expected from him.”

“Pod is… different,” Tyrion replies, eyeing them carefully. “Because he’s— _borrowed_ , for lack of a better word. Even though his original masters don’t seem particularly keen of late to retrieve some of their assets.”

Jaime expects Brienne to take offence at Tyrion’s framing, but she’s silent. He looks over at her, observes how she’s frowning, grinding her teeth. “You think that’s why Catelyn asked,” he guesses. “Not about Pod, I mean. About her kids contacting us. Something was making her distrust the Centre.” He turns to Tyrion. “This was just a few months ago.”

“Maybe,” Brienne murmurs. “If there was some friction with the Centre already, because of Robb. But when she asked, it felt more like… a precaution. I—I don’t think she knew about Joffrey then, or she’d have been more agitated.”

“Hold on—Joffrey?” Tyrion interjects. “Who the fuck is _Joffrey_?”

 _Tyrion really doesn’t know._ It’s Jaime who tightens his hold on Brienne’s arm now. Haltingly, he tells Tyrion of the young man who had made Sansa fall in love with him, who had tried and failed to endear her to the Cause, who had sent her a letter declaring his love and pleading to meet her again (when he says this, he is seized by the memory of Cersei’s last message to him, and the parallel is something so twisted he feels close to nauseous), who hadn’t turned up to that meeting, who had—

who had…

For a while, Tyrion can only stare at them in horror. “I can’t believe it,” he exhales finally. “One agent—all three of them—”

“We know,” Brienne says. “But it’s too much of a coincidence—that it happened precisely while Sansa was out.”

“Oh, I agree with you there. Still, it’s…”

“He might have caught them by surprise. In their home, they wouldn’t have been expecting anything like this,” Jaime offers. “Perhaps he had help, too.”

He and Brienne had considered this theory the night before. They couldn’t decide which was more awful—that Joffrey acted alone, or that he might have had an accomplice for such a senseless crime. Or accomplice _s_.

“Nevertheless,” Tyrion continues, one hand rubbing at his jaw. “There is absolutely _no conceivable scenario_ in which the Centre would be pleased with this outcome. If this—this Joffrey were my agent, he’d be—forget exfiltration, they’d probably have me arrange his _execution_. If he really did this, he’d be a tremendous liability to—to _all_ our operations.”

 _He may not be your agent, but he’s your nephew_ , Jaime replies in his head, drowning out the voice that is reminding him again that they can’t be sure. _He’s the General’s grandson, his latest project._ “One more thing,” he forces himself to say, in as steady a voice as he can manage. “Sansa said… Joffrey looks like me.”

“Like _you_? Why would he—” Tyrion furrows his brow, then realisation spreads across his face. “Fuck. _Fuck_. Joffrey’s— _fuck_. Father sent him _here_?”

Jaime stares at Tyrion. He’d let himself think they’d receive confirmation from his brother, not more confusion. “You mean you don’t know?”

Tyrion gives him a look that says, _Father doesn’t tell me anything I don’t need to know, you know that._

“Do you think it’s possible?” Brienne asks tentatively. “That it could be Jaime’s son?”

“Yes—yes, it’s fucking possible. It explains why he bungled Sansa’s recruitment—he isn’t… well, he can be charming, but when it comes down to it, he doesn’t have the most… elegant approach. Even if Father insists on placing so much faith in him.” Tyrion pauses, his brow still knit, as if trying to recall all he can about his nephew. “But—if it _is_ him,” he says, “I don’t think he killed the Starks himself.”

“What?” Jaime spits. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you know I’ve never had the best relationship with the boy.” _That’s putting it lightly_ , Jaime thinks. Joffrey took on all the disdain that Cersei had for Tyrion, except the boy had much preferred to make it known, rather than ignore Tyrion’s existence like his mother had done. “But I’ve had… six more years of him than you’ve had, brother. Unfortunately for me, I know him better than you do. So trust me when I say, he might be vicious, and phenomenally reckless. But I doubt he has the skills to go up against Ned and Catelyn, and he… I’d think he’d value his own life too much to even try.”

“You,” Brienne stammers, “you don’t think he’s responsible for their deaths?”

“It’s entirely probable that he is, just not as directly as you might think.” Tyrion folds his arms, and sighs. “While my nephew has a sadistic streak a mile wide, the thing he enjoys most isn’t necessarily inflicting pain himself. It’s the _power_ that comes with it. He won’t get his hands dirty if he doesn’t need to. That’s not his… style, if you will.”

Jaime can feel a shiver run through his body, and Brienne’s beside him.

“But it does sound like something he’d do,” Tyrion concedes. “Lash out after failing at a mission, especially if he blames Sansa for that failure. I just don’t think he did the actual killing _himself_. Seven knows who he’s been working with here who could be capable of that kind of brutality.”

That suspicion Jaime had earlier rises back to the surface. “Petyr might know,” he says quietly. “If you could find a way to ask.” He wonders if Petyr knew about Joffrey from the start—if Sansa’s recruitment was arranged by him, and he was given orders not to inform her parents. It was only a hunch, though. Jaime hadn’t detected a shred of honour in Petyr during that one meeting, so it wasn’t beyond belief that he’d facilitated the whole thing, but the man had also appeared so _accommodating_ to the Starks. Or to _Catelyn_ Stark, at least, who, according to Tyrion, had known Petyr from back home. Nevertheless, if Petyr was offered the right incentive by the Centre, even by the General himself…

“You know I’ve never trusted the man,” Tyrion answers, snapping Jaime out of his thoughts, “but he was their handler for almost as long as you’ve been in the country. It’ll need to be handled with some delicacy.” He tilts his head to the sky. “Given the situation,” he says, then looks back at them. “I think there’s something you should know. About why I was sent here.”

Jaime freezes at those words, and feels acutely conscious of a bead of sweat currently running down his cheek, though it’s a chilly day. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t because of… Pia?”

“It was. But that wasn’t all of it.” Tyrion casts his eyes down to his feet. “The idea of training the… the second generation. Your children, the children born to those assigned to the Programme. It’s been discussed for a long time. It was never my intention, when I came up with the whole thing—the children were always intended to be your cover only. Father, and his supporters—they thought it was only logical to train them, and practical besides, since they’re legitimate citizens of this country already. But in my opinion, it’d be more challenging to… to recruit a child who hadn’t been exposed to the Cause since they were young. Who’d deliberately been shielded from the Cause, in fact, in order to maintain your covers.” He looks back up at them again. “Anyway, I’d been fighting it for a while before I was… _conveniently_ reassigned to you. And sent very, very far away from the Centre in the process. Father’s orders.”

 _No. No, it wasn’t meant to be this way._ “Why didn’t you—why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Jaime demands.

“I didn’t want you to worry. It seemed so far off, back then.”

“I thought—I actually thought we would have a _choice_.” He almost wants to laugh in disbelief at his final word. What was it he had told Brienne more than a year ago? _Maybe there’s always a choice. Maybe saying there isn’t a choice is just an excuse._ It’s not an excuse, in this case—it’s the inescapable, crushing reality. _Father’s orders_ , Tyrion said _._ It’s always Father’s orders. Even for— _gods_ , even for Myrcella and Tommen.

“When… when you sent us to meet Ned and Catelyn, the first time,” Brienne says to Tyrion. She sounds so far away, but she’s gripping Jaime’s arm so tightly now that he can feel it going numb. “When they mentioned they were going to train Robb. Part of me assumed—part of me thought you meant for us to get used to the idea.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “I didn’t know the Centre had already suggested it to them, until after. I genuinely wanted you to meet people who’d been through what you’ve been through. So you’d feel less… isolated.”

“Ned hated me,” Jaime mumbles. It seems so childish now, after all that’s happened, and he finds himself wishing he’d made the effort to explain it to the man after all. “Because of the Targaryen incident.”

“I didn’t realise he’d hold that against you after so long. I’d… miscalculated. And I’m sorry for that.”

“No,” Brienne exclaims suddenly, and when they turn to face her, she blushes a little— _how long has it been since he last noticed her blush?_ —and curls into herself slightly. “That meeting… it needed to happen.”

“What do you mean?” Tyrion asks.

“If we hadn’t met—Sansa might not have had someone to protect her.”

Her words settle in the air, heavy and humid. Beneath the weight of them, none of them can speak for a long time. She’s right. Perhaps Catelyn might have found someone else if she had never met Brienne, but that person might not have put Sansa’s safety before the Centre, and before the Cause.

“Alright,” Tyrion breaks the silence finally. In that interval, he seems to have submerged all his distress beneath his veneer of detachment once more. “Thank you—for telling me. I may need some time to… navigate this. Without arousing any undue suspicion. You’ll be able to keep Sansa safe in the meantime? There’s no way to track her to you, is there?”

“We’ll keep her safe,” Brienne affirms, though there’s a weakness in her voice that contradicts the confidence in her statement.

“I’ll be in touch, then. Business as usual, otherwise.”

Jaime gives his brother a tight nod goodbye, and takes Brienne’s hand as it falls from his arm. They’ve taken only a few steps away from Tyrion when he calls out, “Brother. If I may have a word.”

 _Oh._ He’d clean forgotten about Tyrion’s earlier conjecture—about whether Jaime wanted to leave. Brienne gives Jaime’s hand a squeeze, before she releases him. He returns to Tyrion’s side, follows him as he walks just far enough out of Brienne’s earshot.

“About… what I asked just now,” Tyrion says under his breath.

Jaime lets out nothing more than a wordless grunt.

“Be honest with me, brother. I swear to you, none of this will reach the Centre. Do you… want to? Leave?”

There’s no point denying it now. But when Jaime replies with, “We—we won’t go back, if that’s what you’re proposing,” it’s still with more panic in his tone than he intends. “I don’t want the twins anywhere near Father.”

He realises the idiocy of this as soon as it leaves his mouth. Sansa wasn’t anywhere near the General, isn’t even his blood, and he still got to her anyway, through Joffrey.

“No, no. Of course not.” Tyrion’s foot plays with a stray pebble on the ground. “Listen. If I—if I had another way—”

“ _Another way?_ ” Jaime repeats, and he can’t contain his incredulity. “There’s only one other way out of this.” _Defection._ It’s too risky, even more so with the kids. After what had happened to Cersei, to Ronnet Connington, to Olenna Tyrell, even to Hyle Hunt? All of them had betrayed their country to varying degrees, all of them had suffered the consequences at the hands of the Centre. Jaime fears subjecting his family to any of their fates. This country couldn’t guarantee their safety.

“Not that,” Tyrion readily denies, though Jaime thinks he saw something in his brother’s expression—a shadow, or a flash, so brief that he couldn’t quite grasp what it might have meant. Not dishonesty—he doesn’t think Tyrion isn’t lying to him, or baiting him—but… something _else_.

Jaime files it away, to mull over at another time. “Well, what else is there?” he whispers helplessly.

“There’s… there’s another alternative.” Tyrion glances past him, presumably to where Brienne is still standing. “To be frank, I’m not sure I can pull it off. But if I can… find a way. To get you out.”

“Out? Where?”

“Somewhere else. Somewhere out of this fucking war that neither side wants to call a war.”

 _Somewhere else._ Jaime doesn’t know what to think, or feel. This war—all its strange battlegrounds—it’s all he’s ever known. He doesn’t dare hope that they could ever live a life outside of it. “Is that really possible?” he asks. “Without getting caught?”

“Like I said, I don’t know,” Tyrion says. “There’s a lot that’s out of my control. And there’s a chance it might be the riskiest option you have. But I… I can explore it. If you’d like me to.”

Jaime looks over at his shoulder then, back at Brienne. He looks at how she stands alone, how she sways a little from side to side, as if unmoored by—by everything. Would she welcome this news?

Does he dare to think she might?

He turns back to Tyrion. “If I say yes—just, just to exploring it—”

“It’s just that, I promise you.”

Jaime breathes in, and breathes out again. “It would—it would have to be all of us. Pod, and—” _hells, this is madness, they’ve known the girl two weeks_ — “and potentially Sansa, too. Brienne wouldn’t want to leave her behind.”

Tyrion grimaces. “It’s going to be—difficult. Four is tough enough.”

“That’s the way it has to be.”

“Okay. I’ll try my best. And maybe—don’t mention it to your wife, yet? At least until I can offer you something more concrete.”

Jaime doesn’t want to keep something like this from Brienne. But as much as he thinks her faith in the Cause is wearing thin, her trust in Tyrion has never truly crystallised either, and now’s not the time to test that trust. She’s going through more than enough. “I won’t,” he agrees.

Then, Tyrion does something he hasn’t done since they were children. He reaches for Jaime’s hand, and Jaime can just barely recognise the warmth between their palms. “You always did try to protect me, brother.”

“I—I failed at that.” There’s a tightness in his chest. Jaime doesn’t know it yet, but this tightness won’t dissipate for hours. “So many times, I—I wish there was more I could have done.”

Tyrion just smiles sadly, and removes his hand. “I could say the same to you,” he says, before they part.

“What was that about?” Brienne asks, as they walk towards their car.

“He… he was just asking if I was up for another mission,” Jaime lies. “I said I couldn’t manage it right now.”

“Jaime,” Brienne sighs, and he knows she knows he’s hiding something.

“I’m sorry,” is all Jaime can say. They’re halfway across a road, but when he looks in both directions, there isn’t a vehicle in sight. So he stops. He pulls her into him, leans in to kiss her, imagines for these few seconds that everything else doesn’t matter. That it’s two of them against the world, now and forever.

Two—four—then five—now six.

He pulls away, and rests his forehead against hers. “You trust me, don’t you?”

She brings her hands to his cheeks. “More than anything.”

“I promise I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”

She nods, and he feels her forehead rub against his. They stand there in the middle of the road for days, and months, and years. Nine years—it’s been close to nine years that he’s had with her, and he wants nine more, eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six. He wants to allow himself to hope—for a life with Brienne, with their family, a life far away from all of this.

But he can’t.

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually hadn’t really thought about how Petyr Baelish could fit into this whole plot until DK65 mentioned him in the comments, and I realised he would work as the Starks’ handler. Also, I know quite a few of you have been suspicious of Tyrion because I’ve deliberately written him ambiguously, but I did want to reinforce with this chapter that he’s merely one of many moving parts. This is something that was reflected in The Americans too – not every handler knows everything. And his affection for Jaime is real, I assure you.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	30. Faults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I got waylaid by an entirely new 12k word story (it's called [After an Almost](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662541), if you’re at all interested in an angst-filled modern AU).
> 
> And, _ahem_ , I’ve committed to a final chapter count. It _shouldn’t_ increase. The finish line is in sight!

“ _Mum!_ ” Myrcella storms through the front door, Tommen close behind, just as Brienne is done preparing the chicken to roast for dinner. “Will you _please_ tell Dad that he doesn’t _have_ to come with us to the arcade?”

Brienne lifts the baking tray off the counter and pushes it into the oven. “He just wants to spend time with you, honey,” she replies as she shuts the oven door, resolutely ignoring the twinge of guilt that accompanies her white lie. Her answer isn’t _entirely_ dishonest—Jaime always wants to spend more time with the children—but his recent insistence on playing chaperone has less to do with that, and more to do with assuaging their own fears. Now that they have reason to believe the Centre might contact their children without their knowledge or permission, she and Jaime have been taking turns accompanying the children if they can spare the time, rather than relying solely on Pod to protect the twins.

“But it’s always been just us and Pod,” Myrcella protests. “And Dad is _so bad_ at all the games. It’s embarrassing!”

“I heard that,” Jaime calls from just outside the door, and Brienne can’t help but bite back a smile, despite the unsettling truth beneath this allegedly disastrous foray into arcade gaming. “I’m _so very sorry_ that your father only has the one good hand!”

“That’s not the point!” Myrcella shouts back, then turns to Brienne again. “It’s like he doesn’t even _try_ , Mum! He just—” and then she mashes the air with one index finger. Brienne assumes this is meant to demonstrate the _wrong_ method of pressing buttons, so she nods sympathetically, even though she has no idea how one should properly interact with an arcade machine.

“Daddy really isn’t very good,” Tommen agrees, shaking his head in disappointment. “Even when one of us helps.”

Jaime holds his arms up as he walks into the kitchen. “In my defence, it’s a lot of buttons. And there’s the joystick too, for some of them.”

“It’s not _that_ hard,” Tommen shrugs, and wrinkles his nose. “You just have to learn how to co—co-ord—” He looks behind him to where Pod is coming in with a bag of groceries. “What’s that word, Pod? For doing things at the same time, and in the right order?”

“Coordinate,” Pod supplies, placing the bag on the counter.

Jaime puts a hand to his heart, feigning injury. “Wounded by my own son,” he laments theatrically, drawing a giggle from Tommen. Then, Jaime slides up behind Brienne, putting his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. “Wife, tell our kids about my _excellent_ coordination.”

“How would _Mum_ know?” Myrcella props her elbows on the counter and frowns. “She’s never seen you play before.”

“Oh, she knows,” Jaime says coyly, earning him a jab in the ribs from Brienne, and pink cheeks from Pod, who immediately turns around and walks briskly off towards the living room. Myrcella throws her hands in the air in confusion and follows suit. With an exasperated groan, she sinks herself on the couch next to Alayne, who’s had her nose buried in one of Pod’s books for the past couple of hours.

“What are you reading?” Myrcella asks, and Brienne looks over to see Alayne showing Myrcella the book’s cover. “Oh, Pod told us about that one,” Myrcella replies. “Maybe I’ll give it a try when you’re done. Pod thinks I can get through it, if I use the dictionary for the words I don’t know.”

It’s a sedate exchange by Myrcella’s standards, but she seems to be warming up to Alayne, to Brienne and Jaime’s relief. Apart from a mumbled apology for her behaviour on the first day, it had taken Myrcella a full week to actually start speaking to Alayne in sentences longer than three syllables. They still aren’t sure how much of her reticence was due to feeling ashamed of her initial hostility, but it likely had a lot to do with her stubbornness, which is far too well developed for a not-quite-ten-year-old. It’s a trait that Brienne claims Myrcella picked up from Jaime, who in turn points his finger back at Brienne, while Myrcella crosses her arms and says _I learned to be stubborn all by myself, thank you very much._

Tommen, on his part, has been his usual self from the start—sweet and accommodating, even if he’s not quite so guileless as he was when Pod first moved in. He’s come up beside Brienne and Jaime now, and when Brienne looks down at him, she notices that he’s gripping something in his hand.

“What do you have there, baby?” she asks gently.

He opens his fist to reveal a small plastic direwolf figurine. “I won it at the arcade,” Tommen whispers, staring intently at the toy. “I think I’d like to give it to Alayne. She told me she had a dog with grey fur and yellow eyes, just like this.” He tilts his head up, the most earnest expression on his face. “Do you think she’ll like it? Daddy says she will.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it,” Brienne replies, running a hand through Tommen’s hair. He gives her a small smile, before ducking from her hand and heading over to the couch. Brienne shuffles herself a few steps in that direction, bringing Jaime—whose arms are still firmly around her waist—along with her. They can only see Alayne from the back, but they watch as the girl lifts her head when Tommen stops in front of her, and opens his hand to reveal the little direwolf. “For you,” he announces, and Brienne suddenly remembers how Tommen had given up one of his toy cats when Pod first came to the house more than three—almost _four_ years ago. Here he is now, bestowing a gift on Alayne too. As if nothing has changed in all that time.

Alayne gingerly picks up the toy and perches it in her palm, just like Tommen had done. “Oh,” Brienne hears her say. “It looks like Lady.” That must have been the name of her dog.

“I know. I thought you might like a friend,” Tommen replies, then runs back to Brienne again before Alayne can even say thank you. “Mummy, have you seen Bear?” he asks, to which she responds by pointing in the direction of his bedroom. He turns and dashes towards the stairs, prompting Myrcella to jump up from the couch too, and attempt to catch up with her brother.

“No running on the stairs!” Brienne calls after them, though she knows they’ll ignore this instruction, as they’ve been doing for years. “And dinner at six!”

When she looks back at Alayne, the girl is still holding out her hand, one finger stroking the head of the direwolf figurine nestled in the centre of her palm.

“We got lucky,” she whispers to Jaime. “With the kids.”

“Well,” he whispers back. “I’d like to think it wasn’t all luck. Though maybe it’s more to do with you than me.”

She jabs him lightly in the ribs again, for a completely different reason this time. “Don’t say things like that. You’ve always been good with them.”

Jaime chuckles lightly. “I just mean, I don’t know if I could have been _as_ good, if I didn’t have you around to keep me in line.” She feels his lips touch the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. “You’re so good it’s nauseating,” he murmurs into her skin.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It is.” He hooks his chin over her shoulder again. “You’re so good it rearranged my internal constitution.”

It’s a terrible line, and makes very little sense to her, but she laughs anyway. “That still doesn’t sound like a compliment, husband.”

“Nine years, wife, and you’ve never once taken my compliments well.” Jaime kisses her neck again. “Thought I should get creative.” His cheek brushes against hers as he nudges his chin in the direction of Pod, who’s sitting on one of the armchairs, trying his best not to stare at Alayne. “Do you think we need to… intervene?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not worried.” Like Tommen said, Alayne could do with a friend right now, especially someone close enough to her in age. Pod knows better than to act on his crush at a time like this.

“Mm.” Jaime wraps his arms a little tighter around her, and pitches his voice a little lower. “What time is your meeting later?”

She leans her head back so she can speak as close to his ear as she can. “I’ll have to head out right after dinner. I’ll check if Tyrion signalled us on the way back.” Tyrion had set up a different site to inform them of any developments, rather than risk sending communications through the Centre’s network, in an attempt to keep things off their radar. They don’t know who’s involved, and whom they can trust. But they’ve yet to receive a signal to meet, though it’s been more than a week since they last saw him.

“One of his, right?”

Brienne nods against his neck. By _his_ , Jaime meant Ned Stark’s. The Starks had their own network of assets, a network that couldn’t be allowed to languish in the aftermath of their deaths. In the weeks since, the Centre had been slowly redistributing these assets among other active agents, Brienne and Jaime included. Tonight is Brienne’s first meeting with one of them. A mid-career academic, he also happens to be the son of immigrants from one of their country’s allies, yet another nation currently embroiled in a bitter civil war.

The man had been recruited initially because of his sympathies with the Cause—eloquent intellectuals have their uses, assuming they subscribe to compatible ideologies. But, more recently, he’d been passing along information he’d procured from his family’s connections back in his home country. The Centre is involved in that civil war, of course, and the intelligence agencies here are as well. Soldiers have been sent in from both countries too, each army picking a side to back. It’s a war that neither side wants to call a war, only to be played out on battlefields that are ostensibly none of their thrice-damned business. Jaime made no secret of his disdain for this strategy, and in truth, it had always made Brienne uncomfortable too. But if the enemy state was doing it, their country couldn’t possibly abstain. In any case, she’d reasoned that it was necessary to advance the Cause.

She used to, anyway.

She slips out of Jaime’s grasp, walks to the far corner of the kitchen—away from the kids—and rests against the counter. Jaime follows her, puts his arms on either side of her. “What is it?” he asks, softly. “What’s worrying you?”

“I… I don’t know how to do this,” Brienne sighs. “It’s so straightforward—touching base with him, that’s all—but I have to… I have to make him trust me. Believe in me. And you know how Ned was. The connections he made with his assets, they must have been—”

“You’re good at that,” Jaime tries to assure her. “That’s what you’ve always been good at. The faith. Making them believe.”

She thinks of how she’d just used a similar phrase, to tell Jaime how good a father he’s been. That echo—the dissonance of it—it threatens to throw her off balance.

“How do you do it?” she whispers.

“Do what?” Jaime frowns at her.

“All of it. Everything. How do you do it with all this… this _doubt_?”

Brienne had never felt so affected by it before. She’s always used her belief in the Cause to drive everything she’s done, and in the past, that was enough to suppress any uncertainty. But that uncertainty has been there for a long time, hasn’t it? The virus, the camps, Olenna, even the damn super wheat. Hells, even _Targaryen_. She’d been able to pack all of them into boxes, but they’ve always been _there_ , in her mind. What happened to the Starks—it was only the catalyst for her doubt to overwhelm her. It didn’t create it.

The strange thing is, she still doesn’t regret devoting herself so fully to the Cause. She still believes in fighting for those ideals. But she’s come to realise that to the Centre, or at least to the people that preside over it, the Cause is only a _tool_. It’s a tool for control. For power. No matter what they might outwardly claim. And there is no compassion, no justice, in the kind of power they seek. The kind of power they _have_.

She’s allowing herself to see this, now more than ever. And it’s—gods, it’s _crippling_ her. How has Jaime been carrying on like this for so long?

Brienne feels Jaime’s left hand cover her right, and give it a squeeze. “I… I’ve always thought of the kids,” he says. “I think of how doing all this—it gives me a life with them that I could never have hoped for otherwise. And I think of you, of course. That’s how I deal with the doubt.”

She nods. She already knew his answer. He’s told her a million times over the years, and he just told her again, so patiently. “But I really thought we could keep them safe,” she replies, one eye on Alayne and Pod in the living room. “The kids. Safe from this life.”

She’s long accepted the sacrifices she has to make. The terrible things she has to do, alongside the good. But that—that was her choice. It had never been Jaime’s. They thought, at least, that they could prevent that from happening with their children, far away from the General. Now they know, this fate was never theirs to determine. Tyrion said the Centre has been planning this for years. Even if Joffrey was solely responsible for the Starks’ murder, it doesn’t change the fact that he was sent to recruit Sansa in the first place.

“There’s a chance the Centre will put a stop to this,” Jaime tells her. She can hear the weakness in it. “Because it went so wrong, with the Starks.”

Brienne looks down at her feet, how the tips of her toes meet Jaime’s. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

He lifts his flesh hand to her face, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “No, wife. I don’t.”

He’d only said it to make her feel better. It didn’t, though. She doesn’t believe it either.

* * *

As the days pass, Tyrion’s offer weighs heavier on Jaime, in all its inscrutability, in all its danger. There is weight too in all the freedom it could give them. He isn’t stupid—even if they succeed, whatever life awaits at the end of that success will be its own form of prison. The things they’ll have to do to hide themselves from two governments, not just one—the toll this might take on their children—that will be a burden to be borne by the whole family.

But at least they might have a fighting chance of protecting their children from the Centre. From this life that he and Brienne have to lead. From this war that neither side wants to call a war, but that they’ve been fighting for decades anyway.

Still, he can’t muster the energy to hope. He can’t muster the energy to prepare himself for the dissipation of that hope.

As he promised his brother, he doesn’t tell Brienne a thing. Honestly, he’s surprised she doesn’t probe, that she puts all her faith in him. He wonders, perhaps, if she just needs somewhere for all that faith to go. It’s draining out of her at an alarming rate—draining _her_.

They check Tyrion’s site a few times a week, but it’s been close to a month and they’ve yet to receive a signal. He’d warned them it would take a while, and Jaime expects that Tyrion must be taking care not to spook Joffrey, or Petyr, or their father, or whoever the hells is involved in this whole fucking debacle. The two times they see Tyrion at the safe house for their regular meetings, he acts as if their conversation in that vacant lot never happened. _Business as usual_ , he’d said, and it’s deeply unsettling how well he’s able to keep that up. He can see so clearly now why Brienne distrusted Tyrion all these years.

And then, there’s Sansa. No, it’s back to Alayne. By some miracle, they’ve kept her from prying eyes for six weeks, and in that time, other miseries have more or less displaced her family’s murder in the news. The police had apparently managed to trace her to the bus station, but her trail promptly went cold there. With no other family to pressure the authorities on her behalf, and no significant progress on the murder investigation, it seems the search for her is gradually losing steam. Soon, the whole case would simply be added to the pile of senseless tragedies, never to be solved. Jaime might find this an injustice, if all of them—Alayne included—didn’t have such a vested interest in the investigation’s failure.

But staying in one house for two months can wear on a girl, and Pod’s books can only go so far in alleviating Alayne’s cabin fever. Jaime can see how her grief and guilt have become tinged with restlessness too. In a couple of weeks, if they still don’t hear from Tyrion, and if there aren’t any publicised developments on the Stark investigation, he thinks they’ll have to let her out of the house, even just for a little while. They have her cover prepared, after all, and Brienne still dyes her hair religiously. They’d told the twins not to mention her at school— _she’s very sad about losing her family, she needs some time to herself right now_ —but if they did, Jaime doubts anyone would give much thought to the Lannisters taking in the daughter of an old friend.

Sometimes, Jaime asks himself if coming all this way, coming to _them_ , was really the best option for Alayne. From what he’s observed, she’s an intelligent girl. If she’d contacted the police, she probably would have known what not to reveal to them. He supposes she would have gone into foster care then, or stayed with a neighbour—and hells, at least in those situations she would have been able to step out of the fucking house.

On the other hand, that might have made her an easy target for the Centre again. Vulnerable. Recruitable. Perhaps Petyr might have found her and done it himself.

Or she might still be a target for Joffrey. For whatever he might still want to do to her.

Perhaps she could have confessed everything. Told the police her parents and brother were spies, that they were killed by a spy too. Would they have believed her? Would they have protected her?

Would they have been able to?

Well. There’s no point in considering those options now. She’s here with them, and they’ll just have to protect her as best as they can, given the information that they have.

Alayne already spoke very little to Jaime before she realised that he’d fathered Joffrey, and she’s spoken to him even less since then, and not much more to Brienne. She’d already told them what she knows, so maybe there was really nothing left to say, beyond the empty niceties over their shared meals. She seems more comfortable speaking to Pod instead, and they’re fine with that. In fact, the boy had come to them a couple of weeks ago, asking if it was okay if Alayne told him what happened. They couldn’t see the harm in it—Pod was loyal to them, not to the Centre—and if he felt ready to know, then that was his decision. He’d been shaken by it, though. Afterwards, Pod had come to Jaime, and asked if what Joffrey had done to Alayne was what he’d done to Hyle’s daughter back then. Jaime had to assure him otherwise—there were far more differences than similarities, and gods, Pod certainly hadn’t _seduced_ the girl—but he could see why Pod would feel disturbed. At the end of that talk, Pod told Jaime not to tell Brienne he’d asked.

Regardless, it seems Pod is making the most meaningful connection with Alayne out of all of them, and Jaime had come to accept that as their status quo. So, when she comes down from Pod’s room one evening, and asks if she can join Jaime at the dining table, he almost knocks over his mug in surprise.

“Where’s Brienne?” she says first, when she sits in the chair across from him.

“Working.” Meeting with Ned’s former agent again.

Alayne nods. Then she looks towards where Pod is sitting on the couch, and Jaime sees how the boy is giving her an encouraging expression. “Pod,” she mumbles, “suggested that I… I speak with you. He said… it might help.”

“Help with?”

She puts both hands to her forehead. “This is stupid,” she mutters under her breath.

“What is?”

“This—this _guilt_ ,” she whispers. “I miss them, and I’m sad, but I just—I can’t—I feel _responsible_.”

Oh. _It’s all my fault_ , she’d said. They hadn’t heard her say that again since that night. Jaime already feels out of his depth with this conversation, and it’s barely even started. But he knows why Pod told Alayne to come to him, rather than Brienne. Caring as his wife is, she has this tendency to try to smooth things over. To see the good in everything. It’s what Jaime needs, most of the time—he lacks that ability in himself—but perhaps Alayne needs something different. Someone who’ll acknowledge that everything is well and truly terrible, and who’ll help her wade through all of it.

“It’s—it’s _normal_ , Alayne,” he replies.

“Don’t—” She bites her lip. _Don’t call me that_ , is what he thinks she means.

He glances at the stairs, listens to make sure the twins aren’t awake, or at least aren’t out of their room. “ _Sansa_. It’s normal.”

She puts her hands down on the table, stares at him defiantly, and he wonders if she looks at him and sees the only version of Joffrey she can confront. “I know what I said. I know I—I said it was my fault. And I’ve been—I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I see that I was… that Joffrey did this to me. That whoever sent him _did this to me_.” Jaime can see that tears are filling her eyes now, and threatening to spill over. “So—why do I still feel the _same_? Why do I still feel like it’s _my fault_? It doesn’t make any _sense_ —”

“It’s not supposed to. It doesn’t work that way.”

He knows the feeling all too well. You could know, objectively, _rationally_ , that the things that happened to you weren’t your fault. You could know that the things you’ve done were necessary given the circumstances. You could know that you did the best you could, in a situation that was beyond your control. But it doesn’t change how it _feels_.

“Why _not_?” she asks, helplessly.

Jaime sighs. “I don’t think it’s something you can just… explain away. And it’s not even been two months for you, Sansa. The truth is, you might struggle with it for years.”

“ _Years_?”

“It gets better. Duller. More distant. But you’ll still have that doubt, and—it’ll whisper to you. Taunt you. And you’ll have to—you’ll just have to learn to live with it.”

One tear escapes Sansa’s eye, two, and she wipes them away hurriedly. She opens her mouth to ask, “ _How?_ ” and Jaime can barely hear it, but he tries to come up with an answer for her anyway. Oddly, he finds himself looking towards the door to the garage, and thinking of how he had sparred with Brienne so regularly back in the day. “You find ways to cope,” he tells Sansa. “To distract yourself, at first. Then… to remind yourself that there are things that can be good.” He looks to Pod on the couch, and over to the stairs again. “You remind yourself that there are people that… that care for you, and want to help you. And maybe, sometimes, these are people you can care for in return.”

“But I don’t—” she tries to calm herself— “I don’t have any _people_. I don’t have any other family, and I can’t see my friends—”

“Well, you’ll just have to make do with us for now.”

“What?” Sansa almost chokes on the word.

“You can talk to us. Or you can tell us to leave you alone—maybe that’s what you’ll need sometimes. And maybe one day, you won’t want us to be your people anymore. But we’re here now.”

“I can’t—I don’t expect you to protect me forever. I’m not—you shouldn’t need to—”

“Trying telling that to Brienne,” Jaime can’t help but jest. He motions to Pod with his chin. “She picked that one up four years ago. We haven’t let him go since.”

Pod smiles sheepishly back at him, then at Sansa, who returns it with the slightest smile of her own.

“Look, Sansa.” Jaime sets his elbows on the table, grasps his stump with his left hand. “I won’t sugarcoat it. This—it will torture you for, for a long time. That’s just how it is. But… we’ll try our best to help you. To get you through the rough parts.”

She’s quiet, at first, and Jaime worries that he’s scared her with this last bit—he really shouldn’t have used the word _torture_. Maybe what she needed was Brienne after all—to hold her, comfort her, tell her that everything will be alright. Like a mother would. But Sansa nods eventually. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

Silence falls over them again, grows thick. Jaime doesn’t know if what he’s said will sink in for the girl right now. It’s one of those things that he’s had to learn from experience, from surviving all these years. He’s fortunate enough to have Brienne in his life to help him, and the kids. Some days, he thinks that they’re grateful to have him too. Now Sansa has all of them. She may be suffering, but perhaps their presence will mean a great deal to her down the road, if it doesn’t already.

“Tea?” he offers awkwardly, after a while.

Sansa shakes her head. “No, thank you. And thank you for—for the talk.” She gets up from her chair then. “Well. Good—good night.”

“Good night, Sansa.”

As Jaime watches her walk away, and imagines that she’s transforming back into Alayne again, Tyrion’s offer surfaces in his mind. He thinks of what they’ll have to do, if it happens—the truths they’ll have to tell the twins—and an anxiety grips him. Before Alayne reaches the foot of the stairs, Jaime calls out to her. “Hey—can I ask you a question?”

She turns, confused, but comes back to the dining table.

“If… none of this had happened,” he says, still listening out for any movement upstairs, “would you have wanted your parents to tell you? About… who we are?”

He watches as she makes her hands into fists, releases them again. “I—I don’t know. Maybe not. But… I don’t know how long they could have kept it a secret.”

“What do you mean?”

“I… I’d wondered. They were always leaving and coming home at odd times. Whispering in corners. Going off into other rooms. I’d grown up with that, and I thought it was—normal. But as I got older, and when Robb started doing the same. I just… I had my suspicions. It wasn’t anywhere close to the truth, but. I did.”

“Oh.” Jaime thinks of what Brienne had told him—that Myrcella had noticed their moods over the past year. And who knows what Tommen has picked up, and hasn’t mentioned. “Alright,” he says. “Thank you, Sansa.”

When she’s gone upstairs, and Pod’s retreated to his makeshift room, Jaime sits back down at the dining table again, just to think about what Sansa said. He’s never really discussed it with Brienne before—how they might tell the kids. After all, it’s only in the past year or two that he’s seriously considered leaving, and they’ve had so much else on their minds that _how will we tell the kids?_ just never seemed to come up. It had always felt so far away—if they ever planned on telling them, it wouldn’t have had to happen for another six to eight years at least—but now, if they really _do_ have to leave, what the hell would they say?

But Jaime doesn’t have the time to really contemplate any of that right now, because he can hear Brienne fumbling at the door with her key. He can hear already that she’s struggling, and it alarms him— _did she get herself injured again?_ —so he runs for the door to let her in.

She’s—she’s fine, thank the gods. Just flustered. No—hells, she’s _shaking_. He leads her in and shuts the door behind her, but she’s just frozen there, won’t even move past the damn coat rack.

“What’s wrong? Brienne—hey—what _happened_?”

“The—the kids?”

“All in their rooms. What the fuck happened? Did Tyrion signal us?”

“Jaime.” She grasps at his arms, like it’s the only thing in this world that will steady her. “We—we used it.”

“Used _what_?”

“The pathogen. The fucking _virus_ , Jaime.”

“ _What?_ Where—how?”

“The war—on _civilians_ —”

“What war—”

 _Oh. Fuck._ She’d met Ned’s asset again, and he must have told her— _fuck_. So they’d used it in some other war, in some other country, on people that shouldn’t have been dragged into this conflict in the first place. _Innocent_ people.

“You’re sure? You’re sure it was us?”

Brienne lets go of his arms to hold her head in her hands. “I don’t know—he told me, he told me he won’t help us anymore because of this, but there’s no way we can confirm it—”

“Shit.” He slips his left hand beneath her right to stroke her cheek. “Hey—just—just breathe for a second—”

“I _can’t_.” Her left hand reaches wildly for his shoulder, and then, she says the words he thought he’d never hear her say.

“Jaime—I, I’m done. I want out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I was going to bring back the virus before… the current virus situation. While Brienne’s love and concern for her family crystallises her doubt, the thing that really pushes her over the edge has to be the perversion of her beliefs (her ‘oaths’, so to speak), since that's part of her narrative in canon. The virus did resurface in The Americans too (in the war in Afghanistan), but I didn’t want to pursue the whole storyline that led up to them finding out about it.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	31. Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay as usual! I’ve been going back over my old chapters and editing them (I’m up to Chapter 20, with most of the significant-but-not-plot-altering edits made before Chapter 10). And then I got distracted by, you know, the pandemic. But here we are, one step closer to the end!

He tells her that night.

There’s nothing else he can do but tell her, though Tyrion had told him not to. Brienne is finally, _finally_ ready to leave—desperate to do so—yet Jaime can’t feel any of the joy or relief he expected to feel, because she’s _spiralling_ , and he needs to do _something_.

But first, he needs to hold her. Hold her _together_. Gods, it’s as if saying the words— _I’m done, I want out_ —used up the last bit of strength she had left. Jaime doesn’t know what else to do except guide her to the basement so she can fall apart there, away from the kids. He feels more conscious than ever of how cold this basement is, and hard; how it contains that secret compartment behind the washing machine, and every single difficult conversation they’ve ever had about their work. It’s a reminder of everything that he’s— _they’re_ wanting to escape. And Brienne just looks so _broken_ in the middle of it that Jaime has the absurd desire to gather all the blankets from every room in the house, swathe her in them, keep her safe. She’s refusing to let him go, though—or perhaps she’s unable to. Perhaps he feels to her like the only thing she can hold onto.

So he stays, encircles her, tries his hardest to keep all the pieces of her in his arms. Brienne’s response is so different from his own experience that Jaime is struggling to comprehend why this is so intensely destabilising for her. His loss of faith in the Cause had been gradual, cumulative; there was no one thing that had tipped the scales for him. He simply found, one day, that he no longer believed—and maybe he never truly did, given how much of that faith had overlapped with his loyalty to his family. Eventually, he accepted that he had no choice but to keep going, and tried to find ways to make it all bearable, despite the many crises he’d had to endure in the years since. Even after that night when they had dug up Jorah’s grave, that night in the shower when he admitted to Brienne that he couldn’t do it anymore, he still knew he had to keep going. He didn’t break, not in the way she’s breaking now. It’s been more difficult, more exhausting, more painful—but it’s also been more of the same.

If it was all a process of erosion for Jaime, then for Brienne, it’s an unmitigated collapse. Witnessing her in this state, he understands more than ever that she’d built so much of herself around the Cause. He understands that in doing that, she’d exercised her own freedom to an extent that he’d probably never done in his entire life. Jaime was born into the Cause, always took orders directly from his father. He doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t conscious of being manipulated by powers greater than himself. But Brienne _chose_. And now she thinks she’s trapped by that choice, with no way to escape the Centre, no heart to betray it, and no means of protecting her family from it.

He needs to tell her. He has no other choice. _There’s another way_ , he whispers in her ear, again and again. _There’s another way. My brother said he might be able to get us out, all of us. Get us somewhere else._

_There’s another way, Brienne._

It still takes her a while to calm down after, to speak with any coherence at all. Even then, her questions fall from her lips in fragments, and Jaime has to piece them all together, fill in the blanks in his mind.

_Where will we go?_

_How will we get there?_

_When can this happen?_

_How dangerous will it be?_

He can give her no answers in return. Especially not for the questions she doesn’t ask out loud—the questions he’s asked himself too.

_Who will we become?_

_How will we tell the children?_

_Will they hate us for lying to them all their lives?_

_Will they hate us for destroying the only lives they’ve ever known?_

“Tyrion said we’ll have to wait,” is the only thing he can offer, even though it’s no explanation at all. “Until he can provide us with something more concrete.”

“No.” She pauses, takes three breaths. “No. We can’t—I’d rather have—” _something to hold onto._ “Surely he can—” _tell us something. Something to make it real._

So they don’t wait for Tyrion’s signal. The next day, they leave him one instead.

They meet at a bar hidden away on a quiet street, this time—Tyrion’s choice. It’s an unexpectedly elegant establishment compared to their usual, a world apart from safe houses and vacant lots. Tyrion has a longstanding arrangement with the owner for a private room, though it’s not like they have to worry too much about eavesdroppers at eleven in the morning, considering Jaime can count the bar’s patrons on his one hand. They make their way to the room at the back of the bar anyway, where Tyrion is already sitting with a half-empty glass on the table in front of him.

“I was surprised to see your signal,” Tyrion says, without any other greeting. “I didn’t intend for that site to be a two-way street. I’m sorry about the delay on—”

“We’re not here about the Starks,” Jaime clarifies.

“Ah.” Tyrion takes a sip from his glass, then holds it up to them. “Care for a drink first? They have an excellent selection here.”

When they refuse, he gestures for them to join him at the table. “Well. I take it you mentioned my offer to your wife.”

“I did.”

“You kept it from her longer than I thought you would, brother, I’ll give you that.”

Jaime glances at Brienne, then back to Tyrion again. “Things have… changed.”

“Have they?”

“I’m ready,” Brienne announces. “To… to leave.”

“Really?” Tyrion tips his head to the side. “I’d assumed you wouldn’t be so… open to the idea. Did something happen?”

“The asset I took over from Ned. I met him three nights ago.” Brienne sounds much calmer than she was that night, but she’s holding Jaime’s hand in a crushing grip under the table. “He said—he informed me about people, about civilians in his country. Who were dying of… of a haemorrhagic fever. A virus.”

Tyrion shuts his eyes, exhales. “Shit.”

“He is… under the impression that—that it was us,” Brienne continues. “According to the information he received, it was the soldiers on the other side who started dying first. The infection has spread since then. To… to innocent people.”

“Shit,” Tyrion repeats. “I’d hoped—”

“We all _hoped_ ,” Jaime cuts in. “We should have known.”

Tyrion knocks back the last of his drink. “We knew.”

With those two words, a resentment rises in Jaime, something sour in his throat. “ _You_ sent us to Jorah’s grave anyway.”

Tyrion glares at him then. “ _The Centre gave that order._ What the fuck was I supposed to do, brother? It had all been planned, and there were five of you involved—”

“ _Stop_.” Brienne puts her free hand to Jaime’s chest. “It’s done. We’re— _we’re_ done. We’re here because—will you please just—is there anything at all you can tell us about… about what you offered Jaime?”

Tyrion is quiet for what feels like hours. Just when Jaime starts to think he should have asked for that drink after all, Tyrion says:

“Don’t… be alarmed… when I tell you what I’m about to tell you.”

Jaime finds himself swallowing the urge to laugh. _Don’t be alarmed?_ His brother might as well have told them to fly into a panic at the snap of his fingers.

But there isn’t anything remotely funny about what Tyrion says next.

“I’ve been… working for someone else. Another organisation. For a few years now.”

It’s odd. This admission should feel shocking to Jaime—and it does—but it also feels entirely unsurprising. It also feels… _familiar_. Cersei had admitted the same, once. She’d told them she was running missions for both sides, begged Jaime to defect alongside her—how many years ago now? He wants to laugh again—laugh at the fact that this path should be walked by two out of the three children raised by the General. That he should turn out to be the most loyal one of all.

“ _What? Who?_ ” Brienne says, or tries to. Her voice comes out too hoarse to carry even a single word, let alone two.

“Not—not for the other side.” Tyrion waves his hand, as if he means to sweep away the words—like _traitor_ , or _treason_ —that surface in Jaime’s mind. It’s a mind still conditioned by the Cause, as much as it doesn’t want to be. “A neutral party,” Tyrion expands. “Or rather, a… concerned neighbour, who wants to _appear_ neutral. Shares its borders with this country, and doesn’t want an actual war at its doorstep.”

There’s only one country that fits the bill. That’s where they’ll be going then—assuming everything goes according to plan.

Assuming Brienne doesn’t reverse her decision after this conversation.

“A neutral party. Is that supposed to justify your—” _betrayal_ , Jaime almost says, before opting for— “duplicity?”

“I’d like to think it does,” Tyrion replies, as he traces a finger along the rim of his empty glass. “I’d like to think I’m working for the future of my country. I merely… disagree with the powers that be, about what our future should look like. And how to achieve that vision.”

Something tickles at the corner of Jaime’s mind. It’s a loose thread from some distant memory, a thread that snags on Tyrion’s words.

“That’s what happened with Jorah,” Jaime murmurs.

“I’m sorry?”

Jaime looks up at his brother. “Jorah said. There was a mission that went wrong, before we… got involved.”

“Ah. Yes.” Tyrion doesn’t elaborate any further than that.

“Is that why he got caught?” Brienne asks. Her grip on Jaime’s hand manages to tighten even further. “Did you—did you tip someone off?”

“No. That one wasn’t me, I swear it. I couldn’t risk the Centre getting suspicious of me, if it happened two times in a row.”

“It happened anyway,” Jaime scoffs.

“Yes. One would presume there are other forces at work.”

Brienne is paler than Jaime’s ever seen, when he turns towards her. Tyrion must notice this too, because he sighs heavily. “Look. I understand how this might appear to you. But the people I’m working with—they’re invested in de-escalating the conflict. And contributing to its resolution, preferably. It’s… it’s the best thing I can do, in my position. It’s what I’m able to live with.”

The way Tyrion describes it—it all sounds so _noble_.

The Cause had sounded noble to them once.

Will they simply be exchanging one master for another?

“These people,” Jaime forces himself to ask. “They’ll expect us to work for them too?”

“No—no, nothing like that. There might be some… questions you could answer, but most of the information you have, I do too.”

There’s something twisted in that statement. All those years they spent serving the Cause as well as they did, only to be rewarded for it by a country other than their own. They did their jobs as they should have, shared the intelligence they gathered with their handler, only for him to pass on who knows how much of that information with another country, so that now…

But if he and Brienne can serve no further purpose, then— “Why would they help us?”

Tyrion shrugs. “There’s the small matter of putting two of the Centre’s best officers out of commission. But otherwise, consider it an act of goodwill.”

“You can’t be serious.” _There’s always a catch. There has to be._

“Well. Goodwill that I’ve accumulated. And I can’t speak for what will happen down the road, depending on the… global situation.”

_Whatever life awaits us will be its own form of prison._

“Besides that,” Brienne breaks in, “They’re really willing to… to bear the consequences? Of helping us escape?”

Tyrion heaves another sigh. “That’s part of why it’s difficult to arrange. They’d very much like to avoid any kind of political maelstrom, so you’d need to disappear into thin air, essentially. But there are… hoops we have to jump through, in order for that to happen. And with as few people involved as possible. Then I’ll have to contain the inevitable fallout with the Centre—”

“You won’t come with us?” Jaime interjects. Somehow, he’d assumed that Tyrion would, though Tyrion had given them no indication that he would follow. Jaime feels a deep dread already at the thought of leaving his brother behind again. And to deal with a situation like this—

“No. I won’t.” There’s the barest quiver in Tyrion’s voice. “I—I still have a lot to do here. Father will be unbearably furious, I’d expect—if we succeed, that is—but I’ll have to claim ignorance.”

“You really think he’ll buy that?”

Tyrion just shrugs again, and Jaime has to wonder how much of this nonchalance is feigned. “I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. In any case, I suspect Father will want to keep things quiet. Wouldn’t want too many people to know that you abandoned the Cause. If… you’re still open to it, given what you know now.”

Jaime looks to Brienne again. She has some colour back in her cheeks, but she’s worrying at her lip, biting down so hard he’s afraid she’ll draw blood. _It’s your choice_ , he says with his eyes, a nod of his head.

She knits her brows, as if to ask: _Mine? It should be ours._

 _I think it’s our best option_ , he replies. _But I won’t say yes unless you do._

“I told you I’d explore this, brother,” Tyrion interrupts their silent exchange. “And I did. You just have to give me the go-ahead. The actual journey will be tricky, but I suppose it won’t be any more challenging than what it took for us to come here.”

“It will be,” Brienne corrects him. “More challenging. The twins, they—”

“Yes. Of course. You’ll have to tell them.”

Jaime doesn’t know how they’ll even begin to do that. He wants to say they’ll figure it out, like they always do, but he can’t see any way to do it that won’t traumatise them. And Pod and Sansa too—they might know enough of the truth, but it doesn’t mean they’ll be ready to leave, just like that.

 _It’s still better than the alternatives_ , he tries to reassure himself. _We’ll be together, won’t we?_

Brienne readjusts her hold on Jaime’s hand—he can feel the sweat on her palm now, or perhaps it’s his—then lets out a breath. “Okay.”

 _Okay._ It seems too insignificant a word, considering the ramifications.

“Alright then. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“When?” Jaime asks.

“Couple of weeks, at least. Maybe another month.”

“ _That soon?_ ” Brienne says, with all the alarm that Jaime feels. He thought Tyrion would say something like _six months_ , not _two weeks_. Seven hells, the twins will have no time at all to prepare. None of the children will.

“There’s no point in delaying it, surely. All things considered, the current state of the conflict is… well, in my opinion, we’re at the tail end of one of its less turbulent periods, and I don’t think this will last much longer. It’s better to leave sooner rather than later.”

“And Joffrey?” Jaime demands. “Shouldn’t we deal with that before we leave?”

Tyrion seems to wince at the name. “I have… some updates. But not as much information as I’d hoped for. And I doubt I’ll get more without implicating Sansa, or even the two of you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’ll have to discuss the best course of action, if there’s any action to be taken before you leave.” Then, Tyrion proceeds to slide out of his seat. “I’m getting a bottle of wine, and three glasses,” he says. “We’ll fucking need it.”

* * *

Five mornings after their last meeting with Tyrion, Brienne finds herself lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She isn’t sure how long she’s been doing so. Since the night before? Maybe. The sun has barely risen, and she doesn’t remember falling asleep, or waking.

Beneath the covers, Jaime’s hand feels warm in her own. She can tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he is awake. Maybe he’s staring up at the ceiling too.

There is nothing particularly interesting about their ceiling. It is smooth, painted white; there are no patterns to be observed on its surface. She lets it fill her vision, imagines its blankness enveloping her, enveloping Jaime alongside her. She thinks about how, for the past nine years, they have slept beneath this ceiling. She thinks about how, in just a few weeks, they will never see this ceiling again.

Then, she thinks about how, by the end of today, she will be face-to-face with Jaime’s first son for the very first time.

And hopefully the last.

It doesn’t seem real. Nothing about that meeting with Tyrion seems real, even after five days. Eight days ago, the most earth-shattering thing in her life was the knowledge that the Centre had deployed the pathogen—the pathogen contained in the flesh she _cut out of Jorah’s thigh_ —in a civil war halfway around the world. Three days after that, Tyrion had confessed that he’s been working as a double agent for—for _years_ now, though he never specified how long, exactly. For as long as she’s known him? Longer? It doesn’t matter. The length of time changes nothing.

In different circumstances, Brienne might have found Tyrion’s admission validating. She’d never been able to bring herself to trust him fully, even after three years, and now there’s finally something fathomable about Tyrion and his allegiances—something that matches that instinct she’d always had. In different circumstances, she might have even found his admission _comforting_. Clarity is comforting, isn’t it? It had always been comforting to her.

Though that doesn’t feel so true, these days.

In any case, she’d scarcely had time to let all of it sink in before Tyrion was confirming that he had a way for them to leave—a way that wouldn’t involve going home, or surrendering themselves here. It had lifted a weight, at first, this glimpse of freedom. Until he told them that it would have to happen in _two weeks_. Or four at most.

And that was five days ago. They haven’t spoken to any of the children yet.

They have to deal with Joffrey first.

What Tyrion had discovered so far wasn’t much at all. Petyr had indeed taken on a new officer—a recent arrival in the country, going by the name of Joffrey—and it hadn’t taken much coaxing for him to reveal that Joffrey is the General’s grandson. Petyr looked smug, Tyrion said, when Tyrion claimed not to have known that his nephew had been sent here, but beyond describing the assignment as a huge honour, Petyr maintained that he had only started working with Joffrey in the wake of the Starks’ deaths. _He did seem genuinely torn up about Catelyn,_ Tyrion recollected, _though maybe less so about Ned and Robb_. The observation made Brienne shudder. But Tyrion was of the opinion that Petyr didn’t know about Joffrey’s involvement in the killings beforehand. Whether Petyr was aware of—or even instrumental in—Joffrey approaching Sansa in the first place, the Starks’ deaths didn’t benefit him in any way that Tyrion could see. And it’s more than likely that the man would have found a way to put a stop to it if he’d known that Catelyn would’ve been harmed.

 _You don’t think he knows about it at all?_ Jaime had asked. _Now, I mean._

 _I didn’t say that_ , had been Tyrion’s reply. _I wouldn’t put it past Petyr to, shall we say, let bygones be bygones. If he thought it might benefit him to do so._

After his meeting with Petyr, Tyrion had sent a message to the General to confirm Petyr’s story. The reply, which had taken some time, said that Joffrey had arrived only a month ago. It also contained a reminder to Tyrion not to let Jaime and Joffrey meet, lest either of them blow their covers. So that was the official story, then—they were supposed to believe that Joffrey had only been here a month, though they all knew that he had begun courting Sansa long before.

Nonetheless, Tyrion had spent the rest of the time attempting to track down Joffrey’s whereabouts. He’d asked Petyr first, under the guise of simply wanting to ensure his nephew’s safety on his father’s behalf. But Petyr seemed wary of giving him too much information, even as he might have been equally wary of questioning the authority of the General. Tyrion’s contacts had managed, though, with the little that Petyr had given them work with. That’s how they know where he’ll be tonight.

 _We can intercept him, if you want to_ , Tyrion had suggested. _Bring him somewhere. Talk to him._

 _Talk to him_ , Jaime repeated, with more than a hint of scorn. _And if he confesses? Then what?_

 _I suppose I’ll tell Father. After I’ve gotten all of you out, including Sansa_ , Tyrion responded. _If Joffrey’s that volatile, then he’s a liability._

_Isn’t that good for you? For the people you work for?_

_Their interest is in stability, and peace. It’s easier if the Centre deals—_

“I’ll wake the twins,” Brienne hears Jaime say beside her, interrupting the Tyrion in her head. His hand slips from hers, and she tears her eyes from the ceiling to watch him as he climbs out of bed. She tries to slow everything down—Jaime, climbing out of _this_ bed, in _this_ bedroom. In a few weeks, she will never see this scene again.

In the evening, when all the kids are home from school—fed, _safe_ —Brienne heads down into the basement to see Jaime already standing there, with the washing machine shifted aside. The door to the secret compartment is open, and the locked section inside it too. But Jaime isn’t moving. He’s just staring.

She knows her gun is in there.

“Jaime,” she says softly as she walks towards him. But he doesn’t reply. He reaches into the compartment and—

“Jaime, don’t.”

His hand stills. “We need to. Just in case.”

Brienne reaches into the compartment too, and puts her hand on his. “I know.” Gently, she lifts his hand away, then takes the gun out and tucks it in her waistband. _It’s my gun_ , she reasons to herself; she’s better with it anyway, though Jaime’s learned to shoot with his left decently enough. And they’re just meant to _talk_ to Joffrey, aren’t they? Tyrion said to let the Centre take care of the rest.

“He’s my son,” Jaime says, helplessly.

“I know.”

After dark, they drive to where Tyrion had told them to meet. He’s standing by a white van, and when they’re close enough he pats the vehicle and says, “Had someone drop this off for us.” Then he opens the sliding door and climbs in the back.

Joffrey is exactly where Tyrion said he’d be. On their way, Brienne had wondered briefly if she’d be able to recognise Joffrey if she didn’t have Jaime there to identify him. Then she remembered, with a twinge in her chest, that all she had to do was look for someone who resembles her husband. And he _does_ , based on what she observes from afar. They watch him from the van as he comes down the street, heads into the club that he apparently frequents a couple of times a week—for an operation, or for pleasure, they’re not sure. He’s shorter, slighter, but that could have been Jaime in his youth. It makes her want to throw up.

They know they’ll have to get Joffrey when he’s done, so he won’t be missed by anyone at the club who knows him as a regular. It means they’ll have to sit in the car and wait in the meantime. They can see Tyrion in the back through the grille, but they don’t exchange words. He’d already given them the directions to their destination—not one of the Centre’s safe houses, but a secluded property Tyrion had purchased on his own, just in case there was ever any use for it.

Brienne reaches for Jaime’s hand, holds it tight.

It takes another two hours, three, before Joffrey bursts out onto the street. He’s a little unsteady, but alone, fortunately for them. They follow him in the van for a while until they approach a relatively deserted stretch of road. Joffrey can hardly react before they have him surrounded, Jaime in front and Brienne behind him.

“Father?” she hears Joffrey drawl. “Fancy seeing you here.” There’s more _amusement_ in those innocuous words than any real shock. Something in it chills her to the bone.

“Come quietly,” Jaime replies, “and we won’t hurt you.”

Brienne doesn’t wait for Joffrey to respond. She whips a gag over Joffrey’s head and pulls it into his mouth, and in the next second Jaime has a pillowcase over Joffrey’s head. Her hands grab Joffrey’s arms, restraining him; he struggles, tries to elbow her in the ribs, but he’s no match for her strength—he isn’t built like his father, and he’s tipsy, or high, or both—and she’s zip tied his wrists behind his back in no time. Tyrion has the door of the van open behind her, so she drags Joffrey over and throws him in, climbs in herself, zip ties his ankles together too before he can move another muscle. Tyrion jumps in behind her, slams the door closed, and Jaime has them moving again soon enough.

It’s quick; straightforward. She didn’t even need to pull out her gun. They’re trained professionals after all. But she never thought they would have to utilise their skills in this way. On _Jaime’s son_.

The back of the van is mostly empty, save for a stool that Tyrion has already claimed, and a couple of wooden boxes. Brienne sits herself on one of these for the rest of the drive. Joffrey struggles on the floor for the first few minutes, though with wrists and ankles bound there’s not much he can do, and he gives up eventually. From then on, the journey feels as if it takes place in a void. Brienne knows approximately where they’re headed, but she can’t tell where they are at any point—there are no windows—and she can see very little through the windshield, especially with the grille in between.

Eventually, Jaime brings the van to a complete stop, and switches off the engine. They wait for him to come around and open the sliding door, and when he does, Brienne sees a ramshackle cabin lit only by the van’s headlights. Tall trees surround it, their shadows something menacing in the night, but the sight doesn’t scare her. Oddly enough, it looks to her like an illustration out of a children’s book, though she doubts this story will end quite so happily. “Don’t worry, there’s power,” Tyrion comments, unsolicited, and she stares at him curiously. “Electricity,” he says, and she nods. Then, she and Jaime hook their arms under Joffrey’s, and drag him—bound, gagged, and hooded—inside.

There might be electricity in the cabin, but there’s hardly any furniture, so they throw Joffrey in a corner. When Jaime pulls the pillowcase off Joffrey’s head, she has to suck in a breath. It’s _Jaime’s face_. She had seen him from across the road a few hours ago, and already that had made her nauseous. Then she was behind him when they had cornered him on the street, so she couldn’t get a good look at him. Now she’s so close to Joffrey, and she can see it. She can see how Joffrey looks like Jaime, even more so than Tommen or Myrcella. She understands why Sansa had recoiled so violently from Jaime that first night.

The moment Jaime unties the gag, Joffrey immediately hisses, “What the fuck is going—” It’s then that he spots Tyrion, and stills. “Uncle. You’re here too.” His voice has turned calm in an instant, dripping with disdain. Just like his mother’s.

“Nephew,” Tyrion acknowledges.

Joffrey’s eyes travel from Tyrion, to her. “And you must be my—” He looks her up and down, assessing all of her, and his judgmental gaze—again, his mother’s—makes her want to shrivel up inside. Joffrey turns his head back to Jaime. “A decade with that beast. You have my pity.”

She was wrong. Joffrey doesn’t seem tipsy or high at all. But she barely has time to feel offended by his words, because Jaime’s prosthetic has just cracked Joffrey across the mouth so hard that Joffrey’s spitting blood already.

“I don’t expect you to acknowledge her,” Jaime warns in their mother tongue, “but if you insult her again you’ll get much worse than that, I assure you.”

“After all this time, Father,” Joffrey replies, though he refuses to switch languages. “You’ve decided you want to discipline me? Mother sends her greetings, by the way. Or whatever’s left of her.”

Jaime surges forward again, but Brienne grips his right arm, pulls him back. The dynamic between him, and his cousin, and their son—she doubts it is something she will ever understand. _Whatever’s left of her—_ that’s the most they’ve heard of his cousin since she was sent home all those years ago. Tyrion had only told Brienne she wasn’t dead, and Jaime had confessed to her that he only knows that much, too. Neither of them dared ask further.

“Tell us what we need to know,” Brienne tells Joffrey, her hand still on Jaime’s arm, “and we’ll let you off.”

Joffrey lifts his bound hands to his lips, to wipe away the blood. “You’ll have to provide me with some context.”

“The Starks,” Jaime growls, and she sees Joffrey’s eyes go wide for just a split second, before he regains his composure. But that split second is all the confirmation Brienne requires.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Joffrey straightens, leans his head back into the corner. “I arrived here a month ago.”

“Tell us who killed the Starks,” it’s Brienne’s turn to say, letting go of Jaime’s arm now.

Joffrey shakes his head calmly. “You’ve mixed me up with someone else. I just said, I arrived here a month ago.”

“Bullshit,” Jaime spits. “You’ve been here much longer than that.”

At first, Joffrey just ignores Jaime, and looks slowly around the room, at every part of it but them. Then, something seems to shift in him. He glares at Jaime, then her, then Tyrion, and back again. His face twists, and it’s grotesque, like a mask.

Except this is the mask falling.

“You have her.”

None of them reply.

“Where is she?” Joffrey thrashes on the floor, his face growing red with rage. “Sansa’s with you?”

It’s insane. Just the _idea_ of Sansa incites so much fury in him. Hells, there’s none of his mother in _this_. He’s _unhinged_. How could the Centre even think to send someone like this here?

“Tell us who killed the Starks,” Tyrion says this time, his voice perfectly level. Brienne wonders how much of the boy Tyrion had to endure back home, to make him so unsurprised now.

“What are you going to do if I don’t?” Joffrey snarls. “Kill me? Grandfather will have your heads if you do.”

Jaime strides forward, grabs the front of Joffrey’s shirt and shoves him back into the wall. “Tell us the truth, and things won’t have to come to that.”

Joffrey narrows his eyes at Jaime. “ _I did it._ ”

Tyrion scoffs. “No, you fucking didn’t, you little shit.”

“What proof do you have? The word of that _bitch_? She wasn’t even there—”

“I know the Starks would have knocked you out cold before you could even touch a hair on their heads.”

That seems to touch yet another nerve in Joffrey. “You dare say such things to me now, Uncle?” He swings his arms, his feet, struggles against his restraints. “Without Grandfather here?”

Tyrion makes a grand show of looking around the room. “Excellent observational skills,” he pronounces. “You’re quite right. The General isn’t here to protect you.”

Joffrey stops moving then. “I don’t need his protection. I’m telling you the truth. I did it.” There’s a strange kind of relish in his tone. “I killed them, all three of them.”

Tyrion sighs, and paces away from Joffrey, then back again. “You’re being very tiresome, nephew. We both know you couldn’t have done it. Not on your own, anyway.”

“I might as well have.”

“What does that mean?” Brienne demands.

“ _I made it happen._ ”

They already know that. He must know that they already know that, or they wouldn’t have dragged him out here. “Did you send someone?” she asks, trying her best to take Tyrion’s lead and stay as steady as she can. “You arranged it?”

Joffrey just tilts his head.

“If you tell us,” Jaime offers, “we can tell the Centre to go easy on you.”

There’s a sound, low and rumbling, coming from Joffrey now. It’s laughter. Seven hells, he’s _laughing_. “You think the Centre doesn’t know?”

_What?_

“They _know_?” Jaime says, wildly, then turns back to Tyrion, searching for answers. Brienne sees this out of the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t move. She only stares at Joffrey, his body still vibrating with his laughter.

Tyrion takes a step closer to Joffrey. “You’re saying the Centre is aware of this?”

“You see,” Joffrey replies, “it really doesn’t matter if I tell you who did it. They’ve already been dealt with.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

Joffrey shrugs once more, and looks up to the ceiling. “Grandfather’s orders,” is all he says. Brienne thinks she’s heard that answer one too many times, from every member of this family.

“He knows you did this?” Tyrion asks. “Or did you point a finger at someone else to save your own skin?”

“What use were the Starks to the Cause, anyway?” Joffrey brings his hands up to scratch at his neck. “They were fucking up with Robb, and they were going to fuck up with Sansa, too.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Brienne watches as Joffrey drops his gaze from the ceiling to look Tyrion straight in the eye. “You know what happened after Mother came home. How much of an embarrassment it was for Grandfather. It wouldn’t have looked good to have me shipped back so soon, would it?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaime breathes out. “They fucking _know_.”

Joffrey turns to Jaime then. “I’m sure you’ll do better than the Starks, Father. With my dear brother and sister. What are their names again? Myr—Myrcella? And Tommen?” He grins widely, and _gods_ , there’s genuine glee in it. “Grandfather will be so proud to have them continue the legacy.”

All of a sudden, Brienne feels achingly conscious of the gun tucked into her waistband. She’d brought it only as a precaution. Perhaps she’d brought it only because she hadn’t wanted Jaime to do so. _It’s a precaution_ , she tries to chant in her head. _It isn’t the answer_. But what _is_? They had planned to tell the Centre once they got the truth out of Joffrey. But he’s telling them the Centre already _knew_. The answer—it had already happened, and it had come to _nothing_. Joffrey had planned it all, and he was still _here_. He was here while the Starks were dead— _Catelyn_ was dead. Brienne’s only real friend, since Goodwin left.

What did it matter that Brienne had a precaution tucked into her waistband? How many precautions had they taken already, in the past nine years? Precautions to protect their children—the twins, and Pod too—so they could live lives that were as normal as possible? How many precautions did Catelyn take to protect Robb and Sansa, even as she meant to ease them into the Cause? Nothing seemed to matter, in the end. The Centre wields its power regardless. And that power—it isn’t justice. Brienne had always framed what she did as a fight for justice. But that’s all it was—a frame. A box of sorts, neatly packaged to leave out all the inconvenient, ugly things.

Everything seems so clear to her now. The things they had done, the sacrifices they had made for the Centre—Brienne, Jaime, Tyrion, Catelyn, Ned, and all the children—none of it served the Cause at all. Lives had been destroyed, _taken_ , and it was all utterly senseless. None of it had advanced those ideals that they had fought for, bled for, lied for, killed for. It merely gave power to those who wanted it most. And to think that the people responsible—the General, _Joffrey_ —to think they would never face the consequences. To think that the Centre, the Centre who controlled all of their lives, had allowed Joffrey to roam free.

So Brienne makes a choice, right then.

She pulls out the gun, aims it right between Joffrey’s eyes—

and fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of this was in The Americans. That's it. That's all I have to say about this chapter.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	32. Reverberations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read Chapter 31 before the 16th of April 2020, I just need you to know that I changed the second last sentence to “Brienne makes a ~~decision~~ choice”. I can’t believe my entire story is about the choices you can and cannot make, and I didn’t think of that word until a week _after_ I posted the chapter.
> 
> Also, yes, I upped the chapter count to 35. The content is essentially the same, I just realised this chapter wouldn’t work the way I had initially intended, so I had to split it. It also means this chapter is slightly unbalanced between the two POVs, but it was either that or I post a monster of a chapter that would give the characters no room to breathe.

His son is dead. Joffrey is dead and Jaime can’t take his eyes off him, can’t take his eyes off the blood streaming from the hole between Joffrey’s brows where a bullet had entered just moments before. A bullet fired by Brienne.

What is he supposed to feel right now? Grief? That’s what other fathers must feel, if they should see their sons die. It’s what he would feel, if he had to witness Tommen’s death—an unimaginable, immeasurable grief. He can feel an ache in his belly now, at just the thought of it.

But Joffrey was never truly his. And Joffrey deserved to die.

What is he supposed to feel right now? As he stares at the hole between Joffrey’s brows?

“Fucking hells, Brienne,” he hears Tyrion curse behind him. “You could have given us some warning.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Brienne stutters. “I—”

“No, you’re not. Neither am I, to be quite honest. Although we’ll have to clean this up now, which was _not_ how I thought my night would end.”

Jaime feels her come up beside him. “Jaime, I—”

He turns to see her standing there, the gun still in her right hand, hanging by her side. Her left arm is lifted, her hand frozen just inches away from touching him. It trembles, but she doesn’t move it from where it hangs. Doesn’t dare touch him at all. He looks into those blue eyes of hers, and sees that she is sorry that she killed _his son_ , even if she isn’t sorry that she killed Joffrey. _He’s my son_ , he’d told her back in their home, in their basement. But he meant that only in the sense that he felt somehow responsible for—for creating someone like Joffrey, for bringing someone like that into the world, into a family like his. Joffrey, who had gone on to inflict so much brutality on the Starks, and gods know who else in the two decades he lived. If there was anyone in that room who should have been the one to kill him, it should have been Jaime.

He knows what made Brienne do it, though. The Centre had done nothing to punish Joffrey, and the way he had talked about Sansa, about Myrcella and Tommen—

“It’s alright,” he finds himself saying, reaching his hand around her neck and bringing her forehead towards his. “It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Forgive me. I…”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Joffrey was never truly his. And Joffrey deserved to die.

“I don’t mean to interrupt this moment,” Tyrion says, “but we might want to start figuring out how to deal with this. We only have a few hours left before sunrise.”

They move Joffrey’s body to the back of the van first, the pillowcase back over his head. Then, they clean the blood spatter as thoroughly as they can. Tyrion had the foresight to keep the place stocked with cleaning supplies— _I’m a spy who bought an empty cabin in the middle of nowhere; you never know when some bleach might come in handy_ —so when they’re done, it just leaves them with the disposal of the body. In truth, they could have probably gotten away with burying Joffrey in the vicinity of the cabin, but they all agree that it might be safer, maybe even quicker to find an alternative.

“Leave it to me,” Tyrion finally sighs. “Drive us back to where we met just now. I’ll get my people to deal with it.”

They don’t ask which _people_ Tyrion means.

Jaime climbs in the back this time, with Brienne at the wheel and Tyrion in the passenger seat beside her. It feels like some kind of penance—riding in the back of this van with his dead son. This _hearse_. As Brienne starts up the engine, and drives away from the cabin, it dawns on Jaime that with Joffrey dead, this might well be the end of their golden dynasty. Their family, along with the faction of the Centre constructed around them like a fortress, had always seemed so invulnerable. Now, who does the General have left? Cersei must have been cast off, at the very least; Tyrion is working for another country, another organisation; and Jaime—well, he’s about to take his family, including the General’s two surviving grandchildren, and flee. He thinks of the parade of ambitious allies, sycophantic relatives, and obsequious subordinates, and wonders how much faith they will still have in the General when they discover that his two sons and his niece have all deserted the Cause in one way or another, and his three grandchildren can play no part in any succession plan.

It’s tempting to consider that all of this might eventually lead to the General’s downfall, but there’s no way to know, no way to even _predict_ what could happen. They’ve been so far away from their country for so many years, with so little knowledge about the internal workings of the Centre. None of them can know for sure if the information they receive—if any—is accurate and up-to-date. Not even Tyrion. They’ve always been told to trust whatever is communicated to them, but is that really knowledge? It would be naive to assume that. What they have is merely one perspective, presented to them through a keyhole.

In any case, there are so many forces beyond their control, so many nuances they can’t detect without being there themselves. Perhaps the General is still far too powerful for the implosion of his family to hurt him in any significant way, or perhaps it is exactly what is needed to tip the scales against him. Perhaps the situation is so precarious that the weakening of the General could weaken the Centre too—maybe even go some way to _ending this war_ —or perhaps it will have no discernible effect at all.

But, to think… to think that none of this might have happened without _Brienne_. Regardless of the ripple effect of their actions, Jaime would not have found himself walking this road if she had not been the woman standing in his father’s office all those years ago. It had to be Brienne, and Brienne _with him_ —he is sure of it. She may not have had any influence on Cersei’s or Tyrion’s lives, but she had changed Jaime’s irrevocably—and Myrcella’s, and Tommen’s, and Pod’s, and Sansa’s too. And then she had pulled out that gun just now and—

To think that none of this might have happened without Brienne. To think that it was the General who had chosen her to be Jaime’s wife in the first place, who had set his own family on a path that has since veered so far off from the one he must have imagined for them all.

There is an irony in it, but Jaime can’t quite savour that right now.

Partway through their journey—Jaime is sure their car is parked at least another twenty minutes away—Brienne stops the van. “Need to make a call,” Tyrion says through the grille, before getting out. Jaime can see him heading over to a phone booth on the corner of the street.

“Are you alright?” Brienne asks, turning to face him. “Back there, with—”

“I’m fine. Really.” He pokes his fingers through the grille, and Brienne reaches her own fingers up to hook them around his.

Later, when they’ve arrived at their destination and exited the van, Jaime tells Tyrion to be careful. Tyrion slips his hands in his coat pockets and shrugs. “I’ve survived well enough so far.”

“Still. Petyr’s bound to realise Joffrey’s disappeared at some point, and you were asking questions—”

“Don’t worry. I promised I’d get you out, and I will.”

“I’m not worried for _us_ ,” Jaime insists, though of course he is. “I’m worried for _you_. If the Centre thinks you had anything to do with this…” They all know the Centre doesn’t need hard proof, to punish those they think are deserving of punishment. And their father could hardly be expected to protect Tyrion.

“Shit,” Brienne says, running a palm over her hair. It must have just dawned on her that Tyrion might be blamed for what happened. “Tyrion, I’m—”

“If you tell me you’re sorry again, Brienne, I swear to the Seven…”

“Come with us, brother,” Jaime interjects. “Don’t give them the chance to get to you.”

“As if you aren’t conspicuous enough.” Tyrion glances at Jaime’s prosthetic. “And with a wife and four kids in tow. You wouldn’t want someone as… _recognisable_ as me weighing you down.”

“The people you work for are offering us sanctuary, and you’re worried about being _recognised_?”

“You never know who might be watching, along the way.”

“Brother—”

“Have you spoken to the children yet?” Tyrion asks abruptly.

Brienne shakes her head. “We wanted to wait. Till after Joffrey.”

“Do it soon. Petyr—” he bites his lip. “I think he’s looking for Sansa too. I’m not sure if he’ll get anywhere with it, but best we get all of you out.”

A chill runs down Jaime’s spine. He doesn’t want to think what Petyr might want with Sansa, what the Centre might want—and whether those two objectives are even aligned. He can think only of how much suspicion will fall on his brother in the wake of their disappearance.

“With Joffrey missing, then my whole family? You’re the only link between all of us. Please, _come with us._ ”

“There are still things I need to do—”

“Damn it, brother, you can’t do them if you’re _dead_.”

Tyrion wrinkles his brow. “I won’t come with you,” he says, begrudgingly. “But perhaps—after. I’ll consider it.”

There’s nothing more Jaime can think of to convince him. If he’s determined to stay, even under threat of death…

“The kids have the next Friday off school,” Brienne cuts in, her hand finding the small of Jaime’s back. “If we can leave then, tell the neighbours we’re going for a trip, they won’t think anything of us being gone for the weekend. It’ll buy us some time, at least on that front.”

“Alright. Next Friday it is, unless I tell you otherwise. Meet me on Monday morning at the bar, and I’ll have all the details for you.” Tyrion takes his hands out of his pockets, and gestures in the direction of their car. “You better get going.”

Jaime tips his head towards the van. “You’re sure you can handle—”

“Yes, yes. Go home to your kids.”

By the time they get back, the sun is almost up. Pod is awake already, and so is Sansa. They can give up the pretence of _Alayne_ this morning; she’ll have another identity soon enough, they all will. But for now, it’s still Pod and Sansa having coffee at the dining table, and Jaime and Brienne exchanging _good mornings_ with them as they walk into the kitchen. Bear is stretched out on the far end of the table—Pod must have fed him his breakfast—and though the cat’s not generally allowed on there, Jaime doesn’t have the strength to shoo him away. Let one beast have the freedom to do what it wants this morning.

Pod is giving them a look as he sips from his mug, the look he always gives them when they come back from their missions. _How did everything go?_ he asks with his eyes, and Jaime can’t help but avert his gaze. They hadn’t told Sansa or Pod anything about Joffrey thus far—up until a few days ago, all they had were Tyrion’s conjectures—and now, they’ll have to tell them that Joffrey is _dead_. Jaime doesn’t know if Sansa will find this news a comfort at all. Justice, _vengeance_ —she’d never asked for these things, nor expected them. Not out loud, anyway. Will she feel relieved that Joffrey’s gone? Or will it only remind her of the death that surrounds her?

Whichever it is, Sansa is entitled to the truth. Maybe she’ll appreciate that, if nothing else.

Brienne slips down to the basement first—to put her gun back, the gun that put that hole between Joffrey’s brows. Not that it will matter for much longer. They’ll get rid of the gun before they leave, get rid of everything incriminating they keep in that compartment, in their bedroom, in the garage. Later, though. Not today. They don’t have much time left in this house, but they’ll have time enough for that.

In the meantime, Jaime heads to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, and one for Brienne too. She’s back in the kitchen by the time he’s done, so he hands her her cup, and they make their way over to the dining table. “Are the twins awake?” Jaime asks first, and both Pod and Sansa shake their heads. He looks at Brienne, who nods— _yes, let’s tell them_ —so they both take their seats, Brienne next to Sansa. Jaime still makes no move to shoo Bear away, but the cat gets to his feet of his own accord and jumps off the edge. Maybe he knows, somehow, that this is a conversation he shouldn’t be present for.

“Sansa,” Jaime begins, his coffee untouched on the table in front of him, “we—”

“You… you found him?” she answers.

“How—”

“You used my real name. You don’t use it unless it’s about… what happened.”

He sighs. “We did. And he—he confessed that he’d arranged it.” _I made it happen_ , was all Joffrey had said, though Jaime supposes he could have done much more than just arranging. He’d been dead before they could get all the details, but those details feel so irrelevant now. It’s not as if Joffrey would have ever stood trial, even if Brienne hadn’t done what she’d done.

“Arranged it,” Sansa echoes. Her eyes glass over. “He didn’t do it himself?”

“No. We don’t think so. But he was still responsible.”

Sansa nods, and seems on the verge of crying again, but she wipes at her eyes before the tears can fall, sits a little straighter in her chair. “So what now? Are you sending him back?”

Jaime meets Brienne’s eyes then; _I’ll tell her_ , those eyes say, and she reaches for Sansa’s forearm. “Sansa—the Centre already knew what happened. And they… they weren’t going to pursue it.”

He can see Sansa’s entire body tense at those words. “What? What do you mean?” Her eyes grow wide. “Did they—order him to do it?”

“No—no. It was all Joffrey, we think. And the actual killer—Joffrey told us they’d been dealt with. But his grandfather—Jaime’s father—he’s a very powerful man. And Joffrey wasn’t—”

“So he’s still out there?”

Brienne exhales. “Sansa—Joffrey’s dead now.”

Sansa retracts her arm from under Brienne’s hand, and holds it up to her chest. “Dead,” she repeats, listlessly. Brienne had refrained from actually saying the words _I killed him_ , but Sansa must have understood anyway. Jaime sees how she shrinks away from Brienne, and feels the need to add: “He got what he deserved, Sansa. Who knows who else he’d have hurt.”

“He’s your son.” Sansa puts her head in her hands. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t _apologise_.” First Brienne, now Sansa. Like Tyrion, Jaime is tired of hearing apologies from people who shouldn’t have to make them. “It was the only justice we could give you.”

Pod places a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “The Centre,” he says, “they—they won’t be happy about this, w-will they?”

They might as well tell them about the plan now—the news will be a shock either way. Jaime takes Brienne’s hand. “There’s something else we need to tell you. Both of you.” He pauses, tries to get a handle on his words, and Brienne gives his hand a squeeze. “My brother,” he goes on, “he’s making arrangements for our family to—to get away from this life. To leave this country.”

“Leave this—” Pod repeats, and then Jaime sees some realisation in his face. “Oh.”

It isn’t the first time Pod has had to run from one country to another.

“Where are you going?” Sansa asks, confused, her eyes darting between all three of them. “You’re going _back_?”

“ _We_ ,” Brienne corrects. “Where are _we_ going. You’ll need to come with us, Sansa. Not back home, but—we’ll be crossing the border.”

Sansa jerks her head towards Brienne. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I know this must come as a shock,” Brienne says, and Jaime has to marvel at how she can still sound so gentle at a time like this. “I wish you had a choice in the matter. But it’s the only way we can keep you safe from the Centre. They might still be looking for you.”

“Won’t they just _follow us_?”

“We’ll have to be extra careful. Jaime’s brother is—”

“I don’t even have my passport,” Sansa interrupts, frantic already. “How am I supposed to travel?”

“You won’t need it. My brother will handle it,” Jaime attempts to assure her. She shouldn’t be travelling with her own passport anyway, not with the police still searching for her, but he thinks it’s best not to bring up that fact at the moment. “Passports, new identities for all of us.”

“They’ll arrest us, they’ll know it’s all fake and we’ll—”

“No, that won’t happen,” Jaime lies, knowing full well he can’t guarantee it. “They—they know we’re coming. We just have to keep everything quiet, that’s all.”

Sansa can’t seem to respond to that. She just puts her head back in her hands again. It’s Pod who speaks next, his hand still firmly on Sansa’s shoulder. “When do we leave?”

Jaime glances at Brienne, then back to Pod. “Next Friday.”

“So _soon_?” Even Pod seems frantic now. “But the twins, they—”

Right at that moment, Sansa stands. “I’m sorry, I need to—”

She heads straight for the stairs before any of them can say another word. Brienne stands too, moves to go after her, but Pod stops her. “I’ll go,” he offers, and Brienne sinks back into her chair.

“Wait,” Jaime calls out, and Pod turns back to him. “Pod, we’re… we’re sorry this is so sudden.”

“I understand.” Pod looks off to the side. “I’m—I’m glad you’re b-bringing me with you, but… you’ve been so, so good to me all these years, and I… if I have to stay, I’ll—”

“No,” Jaime and Brienne reply simultaneously. “You’re family, Pod,” Brienne continues. “You’re coming with us.”

He gives them a small smile in return, but it’s a brief one. “The twins…”

“They don’t know yet,” Jaime sighs. “We’ll tell them soon.”

The boy nods once, then turns to follow Sansa.

When they finally make their own way upstairs, Jaime can hear the soft, familiar sounds of the twins waking through their bedroom door—their tired murmurs to each other, the patter of their footsteps. He can’t face them right now, though, so he heads past their room and straight for his, straight to the closet for a change of clothes. He desperately wants a shower, but if the kids are already up then there isn’t time, and he’ll just have to wait till they get them off to school. He thinks of carrying Joffrey’s body into the van, and has this urge to strip bare and burn everything that he’s wearing, every shred of fabric that has touched Joffrey and all the cruelty he held within him.

Just then, he feels Brienne’s arms wrap around his waist from behind.

“Jaime,” she murmurs into his neck, “are you sure you’re alright?”

He grasps her forearm with his hand. “Yes,” he replies, “I’m sure.”

There’s a long pause, and he can feel something in it—some question she’s afraid to ask, pressed between her chest and his back.

“What is it?” he asks, leaning into her.

She puts her cheek to his. “You don’t think I’m… a _monster_ , do you? For doing it?”

A _monster_. How that word has haunted them for the past couple of years. He turns around, holds her face between his hands. “No—gods, Brienne, _never_.” He kisses her then, wants her to know with that kiss that he can never believe she is anything other than good—or as good that she can be, given the lives they live. The lives they will no longer live, if all goes according to plan.

“The truth is,” he tells her, when their lips part, “I don’t feel much at all. I’m not sad that he’s gone, but I’m not—I can’t feel good about it either, you know?”

She nods.

“I just know that—I want to protect the family we’ve built together. The children I have with you.” Jaime kisses her again, and now he’s the one afraid of the answer to a question he hasn’t asked. “Does that make—”

“No,” she says, before he can finish his question. “No. Never.”

* * *

The first time Brienne falls asleep after that night, she dreams of killing Jaime.

She’s just closing her eyes for a second. Pod and the twins are already at school, Sansa’s locked herself in Pod’s room, Jaime’s spending longer than usual in the shower, and she just wants to lie down and close her eyes for a second.

Next thing she knows, there’s a gun in her hand, and she’s in the middle of that ramshackle cabin again. She doesn’t see Jaime or Tyrion, but Joffrey is still bound and gagged in the corner. No—wait—it isn’t Joffrey. It’s _Jaime_. Jaime in the clothes Joffrey was wearing last night. Before she can stop herself, she’s pointing the gun straight at him, but _why_? It’s _Jaime_ , she should be running over to free him instead, but she can’t seem to move her feet, can’t move any part of her body except for her right arm, and the hand holding the gun at the end of it. She has to pull the trigger, somehow she knows she has to, it’s what she’s supposed to do and she’s _trying_ , but _it’s Jaime, damn it_ , none of this makes _any fucking sense_ and the trigger won’t budge, or maybe it’s her finger that won’t budge, and she’s struggling, arm outstretched and shaking with the effort of trying-to-shoot and not-wanting-to-shoot, and all the while Jaime is just observing her with this vacant stare. Suddenly, the trigger unsticks, the gun fires, the bullet finds its way between those green eyes she knows so well and—

Her eyes fly open.

Jaime is standing over her—in just his sweatpants, not in Joffrey’s clothes—with his hair still damp from his shower. There is no bullet hole between his brows.

“Bad dream?” he asks, reaching down to touch her cheek.

She nods, leaning into his fingers. “He looked so much like you,” is all she can say.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and when she shifts in to give him more room, he lets himself fall into the space beside her. They lie there together in silence, two bodies on one half of this bed. There was a time— _years_ —when they’d barely touched, even when they slept beside each other each night. And now here they are, skin to skin, his head pillowed on her left arm, her right hand resting on his bare chest. It makes Brienne think of their first night in this house, when he’d told her—

“Remember what you said about this bed?”

“Hmm?”

“Our first night here. You said… you had the Centre send a bed large enough. So there’ll be room for both of us.”

“Hmm. I remember thinking I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why?”

Jaime adjusts himself to face her. “I don’t know. I thought it might be—reassuring. For you. But it felt silly, once I’d said it.”

“I’ve always wanted to ask what you meant by it.”

“Ah. You thought I didn’t want to touch you?”

“Maybe,” she muses, running a thumb over his brow. “Not that I wanted—”

“I know.” He snakes an arm around her waist. “I just thought it’d be… I don’t know, more tolerable for us. These small comforts—whatever makes things easier—they matter.”

“Mm.” Brienne wonders at this distant memory of her own mind, a mind that didn’t know what to make of Jaime Lannister, or of the prospect of touching him. She feels compelled to kiss him between his brows then, right at the point where she’d…

She presses her lips to his forehead before the images can surface again, and holds them there for a long while. When she finally pulls away, she can see in his face that he understood the significance of the kiss, though he makes no comment on it.

“I was thinking,” he says instead, “about how to tell the kids.”

“What about it?”

“I think we’ll need to wait till the weekend.”

“Why?” Something knots in Brienne’s stomach at his suggestion. Every day is one day closer to their departure, one more day that they’ll be lying to the twins by pretending that departure isn’t impending.

“Can you imagine them going to school?” Jaime replies. “Knowing what we’re planning to do?”

“Oh.” _Shit._ She’d been so consumed by—by _everything_ , that she hadn’t had a chance to think all of that through. They can’t expect the twins to put up a front at school. Even if they take the news well—she’s sure they won’t—she doubts they’ll be able to resist the urge to say goodbye to their friends, or worse, a teacher. “Do you think we should…” She closes her eyes. “No. Never mind.”

“What?”

“I was wondering if we should tell them after. After we leave. Say we’re going for a trip, and tell them when we’re there. But that feels…”

It feels like compounding the betrayal. It feels like taking away a choice from Myrcella and Tommen, even though that choice doesn’t exist—and never existed in the first place.

“Yeah. I know.” Jaime tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Today’s Thursday, right?”

She has to pause for a moment before she nods. All the days have blurred together, especially since Sansa arrived.

“So we wait till Saturday. It’s just two more days.”

“And next week?”

He grimaces. “Call the school on Monday and say they’re sick. Keep them home till we leave.”

_Keep them prisoner_ , Brienne thinks, involuntarily, and she feels that knot in her stomach again. The idea of confining the twins for five days feels so much worse than all the weeks they’ve had to keep Sansa in the house. She could reason that they’ll be protecting Myrcella and Tommen, just as they’ve been protecting Sansa, but it feels like nothing more than a flimsy excuse, no matter how much truth there is to it.

There isn’t a better option, though. Either they give the twins no notice at all, or they _do_ —and keep them from interacting with anyone before next Friday.

“They’ll hate us, Jaime.”

“I know.” He looks away, then back to her again. “But this will keep them safe. It’ll keep our family together.”

Brienne untangles herself from him, and rolls onto her back, on his side of the bed. “Sometimes I wonder—if we’ve been lying to ourselves all these years. About the lives that we’ve given them.”

He shifts onto his side, props his head up with his stump. “What do you mean?” he asks, frowning.

“We’ve always thought we’d given them a good life. A happy childhood. But really, it’s all so—so _tenuous_.” She sits up then, crossing her legs as she turns to face Jaime. “ _We_ put them in this situation. In danger. Gods, we put _ourselves_ in danger all the time—what if something had happened to one of us all these years?”

He runs his hand over her knee. “If they’d grown up back home—”

_Joffrey._

“I know.” She catches hold of her big toe, squeezes it between her fingers. “I just wish—I just wish they could have normal lives, that’s all.”

Jaime sighs. “You know, I spoke to Sansa about this. Briefly.”

Brienne lifts her head. “You did? When?”

“The night when you… you learned about the virus.” He flips himself onto his back, but keeps his head turned towards her. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you. I asked her if she’d have wanted her parents to tell her, if Joffrey hadn’t shown up.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she wouldn’t have wanted to know, but she’d had her suspicions. Not that they were spies, but just… how they acted over the years.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I think the twins would have figured something was up eventually. We don’t exactly work on a nine-to-five schedule.”

“I suppose. They’ve already noticed we’ve been acting odd in the past year.”

“Mm.” He lifts his hand up to her cheek. “Anyway. Once we’re across the border. Maybe we could give them a normal life after all.”

“Maybe.” There’s so much they don’t know about _across the border_. She could ask Tyrion on Monday, but she doesn’t know if he’s in a position to make any promises, or if the promises he makes will be kept once they’re there. This organisation he works for, they have no incentive to provide for their family beyond giving them a way out. Would they be left to fend for themselves? Would they have a place to live, a school to send the kids to, any kind of protection from—

“Don’t,” Jaime says, interrupting her thoughts. “One step at a time.”

His hand travels from her cheek down to her neck, gently guides her down so that she’s lying beside him again. She reaches for his hand, interlaces their fingers, tucks herself into him, breathes him in. It’s so—so _dangerous_ to feel this way, this close to him, at one with him, and _hells, I’ve just killed his son, and all he said was there’s nothing to forgive_. But in this moment, with Jaime beside her, she dares to feel something like hope.

Even for a normal life.

The second time Brienne falls asleep after that night, she doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	33. Revisions

The next day is strange—a limbo. Four out of the six people living in their house know what next Friday will bring, and they have to tiptoe around the two that don’t. It’s the last normal day that the twins will have for a long time, and Brienne feels so desperate to keep it that way that she can’t act normal at all. She pitches her voice too high one minute, and too low the next. She arrives far too early to pick them up from school after spending a pointless three hours at the office, maintaining a cover that she won’t need in a week’s time. She cooks a dinner more complicated than average, burns one dish as a result. Somehow, she even manages to find some fault in the way she tucks them in that night.

“I’ve ruined it,” she tells Jaime after.

“I didn’t do too well either,” he replies. She isn’t sure if he’s just saying that to make her feel better—in truth, she’d been too preoccupied with her own failings to notice any of his.

They decide to have the talk in the twins’ bedroom, without Pod or Sansa present. It feels like the most sensible thing for an impossible conversation, with just the four of them together, the way it had been for the first five years. And so, after dinner on Saturday, Brienne ushers the twins in there, with Jaime closing the door firmly behind them. All four of them sit side-by-side on Tommen’s bed—the twins in the middle, with Brienne next to Myrcella, and Jaime next to Tommen.

“What’s going on?” Myrcella asks, kicking her legs nervously over the edge of the bed. “Did we do something wrong?”

“No, honey. Nothing like that,” Brienne replies, rubbing Myrcella’s back.

“Your mother and I need to tell you something,” Jaime says. “Something important that affects all of us.”

“Shouldn’t Pod be here too?” asks Tommen, his hands absently kneading a calico toy cat, one of the few he still keeps on his bed.

“We’ve talked to Pod already,” Brienne answers. “And Alayne too.”

Myrcella huffs. “What does Alayne have to do with anything?”

Brienne meets Jaime’s eyes at that—they can’t tell the twins any more of what happened to the Starks, not at their age—before turning back to Myrcella. “We promised her mum and dad that we’d take care of her. And we—” she takes a deep breath—“we’ll be moving. To another country. All of us.”

“ _What?_ ” the twins chorus, looking wildly between Brienne and Jaime. “Why?”

“Remember how—” Brienne sighs, and puts a hand over Myrcella’s arm where it rests in her lap. “Remember how you’ve noticed we’ve been upset?”

Myrcella nods. “You said you were just stressed about work.”

“And that’s true. It’s just—we were—”

And all of a sudden, Brienne’s mouth just can’t seem to form words. Fuck, she and Jaime had gone through _everything_ —what to say, who to say it, _how_ to say it—and now that she’s seeing the panicked look on her children’s faces, she can’t recall any of the phrases they’d agreed upon. She glances at Jaime again, pleading for him to continue, and he nods.

“Your mum and I,” he picks up for her, “for a long time, we’ve been doing this job. And we’ve had to keep this job a secret from everyone.”

“What kind of job?” Tommen asks meekly, gripping his toy cat tight to his chest.

Jaime wraps an arm around Tommen’s shoulder. “We can’t tell you right now. But we thought it was really important that we do this job, to… to make the world a better place. Except now, it’s putting our family in danger.”

“What do you mean?” Myrcella demands. “What about the travel agency?”

“That’s—it’s just what we told other people. It’s not—”

“Oh.” Myrcella’s eyes go wide. “That’s why you’ve never brought us to your office.”

“Myrcella—”

“You _lied_.”

 _You lied._ Two simple words, and it feels like the most damning judgment in the world. There’s no point in denying it, or justifying it. No point in an empty statement like, _we know we say that lying is bad, but sometimes you can have a good reason to do it_.

Brienne isn’t even sure anymore how good their reasons were.

“We did lie,” she replies, finding her voice again. “We lied, because we believed it was to protect all of us. But we can’t keep doing that job anymore. It isn’t safe for us.”

“What did you _do_? Why can’t we just go to the police, or—or—”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says. “We can’t do that. That isn’t safe for us, either.”

“Why? What are you— _thieves_? _Murderers_?”

“Of course not,” Jaime answers, just as Brienne thinks, _not exactly._ They wouldn’t call themselves thieves, or murderers, but they’ve stolen things, haven’t they? They’ve killed people. She’d killed the twins’ _brother_ , two days ago. It might have been for the best—she wouldn’t have wanted Joffrey anywhere near his siblings—but it doesn’t change the bare facts of it. _Thieves. Murderers. Liars._

“I promise, we’ll tell you more when you’re older, okay?” Brienne deflects. She tries to rub Myrcella’s back again, but Myrcella just shrugs her hand away.

She’d prepared herself for a reaction like this. It doesn’t make it sting any less.

“When do we need to go?” Tommen whispers, his fingers practically wringing his cat now.

Brienne can see how Jaime tries not to flinch when he says:

“Friday.”

“ _Friday?_ ” Myrcella launches herself off the bed. “What about all our friends? What about school?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” is all Brienne can say, helplessly. She doesn’t want to placate the twins by telling them they’ll be able to make new friends, or go to another school. She doesn’t want to suggest that all these elements in their lives are replaceable—it’s disingenuous, and unfair, and she’s had enough of disingenuous and unfair things.

“Will we at least get to say goodbye?” Tommen asks.

“No, baby.” Jaime hugs Tommen a little closer into his side. “I’m so sorry. We can’t let you go to school, or see your friends anymore. We have to keep this our secret, so you’ll have to stay home till we leave.”

“This is _insane_ , Dad!” Myrcella yells.

“We know it is,” Jaime replies, holding out a hand as if it would do anything to calm her down. “But we can’t let anyone find out about this, and we don’t want to ask you to lie to everyone.”

Just then, Tommen begins to cry. They’d known this would happen, but _gods_ , it’s painful all the same. “What about Bear?” he says through his tears, staring up at Jaime, then at Brienne. _Shit_. They’d discussed trying to find someone to take care of the cat—there’s a neighbour or two that should be able to give Bear a good home, when the Lannisters don’t return from their weekend trip—but they haven’t even brought that option up, and Tommen is distraught already.

“Oh baby.” Brienne puts a hand to his cheek and wipes away his tears with her thumb. “we’re not sure if that’s—”

“We have to bring Bear,” he begs. “We can’t leave Bear behind.”

“I’m not sure he’ll like travelling so much,” she says, looking at Jaime for an answer, but he only knits his brow.

“But he’s part of our family,” Tommen begs again. “Please, we can’t—”

“Will you _shut up_ about the stupid cat?”

The outburst from Myrcella startles all of them. Gods, this is already going as badly as could be expected, and now Tommen is crying even _harder_.

“Myrcella!” Jaime stands from the bed, and Brienne has to catch his wrist. Myrcella’s never spoken so harshly to her brother before—not that they’ve witnessed—but they already knew the kids wouldn’t react well, and she doesn’t want Jaime adding fuel to the fire.

Myrcella turns her chin up at Jaime defiantly, though Brienne can see that her bottom lip is trembling. “You’re—you’re blowing up our _whole life_!”

“Look,” Jaime concedes, bending down on one knee, “we’re sorry this is happening. We really are. But this is what we have to do for this family. It’s what we have to do to keep you safe.”

Myrcella doesn’t respond at first. She just clenches her fists, and unclenches them; bites down on her bottom lip; rocks on the balls of her feet. A few seconds of this, then, quietly:

“What else have you lied about?”

Jaime gets to his feet. “What?”

“Cella, d-don’t!” Tommen whimpers.

_What the hell is going on?_

“You—you lied to us about your job.” Myrcella looks ready to cry now, too. “What else have you lied about?”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

Myrcella takes a few steps away, then turns to face them again. “Do you know what they say about Mum at school?”

 _About me? What could they possibly—shit, is our cover blown, just as we’re about to leave?_ Jaime’s mind has clearly gone to the same place, because he whips his head back towards her for a split second, before looking back at Myrcella.

“Don’t tell them!” Tommen cries. “It’s not true!”

“Myrcella.” Jaime takes a half-step towards her. “You tell us right now.”

She wipes at her eyes, then looks down at her feet. “They—they say—Mum—some of the other kids, they say she’s not our—our real mother.”

Everything goes cold.

Brienne hadn’t expected _this_. Not in a million years. They’d gone into this conversation imagining that they were equipped for every eventuality, all the panic and the crying and— _hells_ , they were even ready for the twins to guess that they were _spies_.

But not—not _this_.

“What?” Jaime puts his hand on Myrcella’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

“We… we didn’t want you to worry,” Tommen answers for his sister, as he shifts himself into Brienne’s arms. “They’re all just—just being stupid.”

“What _exactly_ do they say?” Jaime enunciates the question slowly—or maybe he’d said it at his normal speed, but he… he sounds… so far away. They’d never—they’d never planned for this—they’d never planned to tell the kids _at all_. The Centre had said they shouldn’t from the very beginning, and they’d _obeyed_ —

Was that a mistake?

“They say,” tears are rolling down Myrcella’s cheeks, “they say we don’t look like her. They say she’s—” and then she shakes her head, and won’t speak further. She doesn’t need to. Brienne can guess all the careless ways that a ten-year-old child might complete that sentence. Children can be cruel, she’d learned that long ago—it doesn’t matter that she’d learned it in a different time, a different country, a different language.

“How long has this been going on?” Jaime asks, brushing his hand through Myrcella’s hair.

“Months,” Tommen sobs.

Gods, _months_.

And the twins hadn’t mentioned it in all that time.

What kind of parents are they, that the twins had felt the need to keep something like this from them? What kind of parents have they been this past year? And for it to come out _now_ —

“She’s your mother, okay?” Jaime declares, looking from Myrcella to Tommen and back. “End of story.”

_Is it?_

Myrcella turns to Brienne, and there’s something in her eyes that— _oh_. It’s at this moment that Brienne realises she hasn’t said a word since Myrcella had—

 _They say she’s not our real mother_.

Should she reassure them? Tell them it isn’t true? She’s their _mother_ , and yet she can’t seem to decide what to say, and now Jaime is trying to bring Myrcella into his arms, but she ducks from him and runs out of the room. He looks back at Brienne, and she just manages to mouth at him to _go_ , so he turns and follows Myrcella out the door. Brienne would follow them too, but she’s still trying to soothe Tommen—he’s still in her arms, crying, and _damn it_ , they’ll have to bring the damn cat, won’t they?—and she’s still trying to absorb what Myrcella just revealed. She still doesn’t know what to say.

_They say she’s not our real mother._

Later, after Tommen has calmed down and fallen asleep, Brienne slips quietly out the door. She doesn’t see Jaime back in their room yet, though she can’t hear anything from downstairs either. Without Tommen to distract her from her own thoughts, her mind won’t stop _running_ , thinking of all the taunts the twins must have endured at school these past few months, and _Seven above_ , she just needs something to _do_. So she walks back into their room, over to the closet, takes down the small suitcase they keep above it. She’ll start packing—that’s what she’ll do. There’s nothing else she can do right now but pack.

She opens the suitcase and—it isn’t the same size, or shape, or colour, but she has to try not to think of Donyse. Of Donyse’s body—

The door opens, and the image evaporates. Jaime enters, closes the door behind him, leans against it and sighs heavily. She watches as his eyes travel to the empty suitcase lying open on the floor.

“How is she?” she asks, when he doesn’t say anything.

“Better now. But she won’t really speak to me, so I left her with Pod.” He walks towards her, unstrapping his prosthetic. “I asked, and—he didn’t know about it, either.”

There’s a dull pain throbbing within her ribs, harder still at the idea that the twins had kept this entirely to themselves, and how they might have suffered because of it. She brings her hand to her forehead. “Should we tell them? About—”

He sighs again. “What would we say?”

“The truth. That I—I didn’t give birth to them.”

“What for?” Jaime walks by her, sits down on her side of the bed, places his prosthetic on her bedside table. “She’s—she’s scared, Brienne. Both of them are. Myrcella’s lashing out at whatever she can, finding something to—to latch onto. Amidst all this madness.”

“They should have told us, Jaime.” She approaches him, puts her hands on his shoulders, lets him rest his cheek on her belly. “They shouldn’t have had to feel like they couldn’t tell us.”

“I know.” He wraps his arms around her legs. “But you’re their mother. No one else.”

She knows this. She’s known it for a long time. She _believes_ it.

So why does it feel like a lie again? After all this time?

The days after pass in a haze. Things are manageable, albeit tense, with Pod and Sansa. Tommen too, once they’ve reassured him that they’ll bring Bear with them, though Brienne isn’t sure what Tyrion will have to say about that. But Myrcella—she barely speaks to any of them. They can’t blame her. Bad enough that they’re leaving on such short notice, cutting the kids off from everything they’ve ever known, and now—

( _They say she’s not our real mother._ )

They start packing on Sunday, which shouldn’t have taken much time at all, in theory. They’re only supposed to be going on a weekend trip as far as everyone else will know, so they can’t be seen with too much luggage. Anyway, they should be travelling light—Brienne recalls how she and Jaime had brought hardly anything with them when they’d first come to this country. But they find themselves negotiating with Tommen, who sullenly agrees to pick only one of his toy cats to bring with him, as long as Pod gets to bring Boots too. Pod, on his part, takes all day to decide which of his books to take with him. Sansa is the easiest of the four kids by far, though it’s only because she’d arrived at their house with just the clothes on her back, and has been wearing the same few outfits they’d bought for her since. And Myrcella—she won’t respond when they ask if there’s anything in particular she’d like to bring with her, so Brienne has to pick out everything without consulting her.

(Later, a small pile appears outside of the twins’ bedroom door—a book, a t-shirt, a dress, and one more of Tommen’s toy cats. A peace offering, Brienne thinks, for how Myrcella had shouted at him the day before.)

On Sunday night, Brienne prepares their weekly schedule for the very last time. It feels absurd to do so, but they should continue their operations until the last possible moment, and she wants to keep up some semblance of a routine. They don’t have anything major lined up this week, thankfully—she doesn’t know if she’d be able to handle more than their regular meetings—they just need to do what they can to make sure the Centre’s suspicions aren’t aroused prematurely. When she gets to the column marked Friday, she taps her pencil on the piece of paper, and thinks she has to remember to burn it on Thursday night, instead of on Sunday like she’s done for the past nine years. Then, she sticks it to the inside of their secret compartment, with nothing written under Friday but dots of graphite.

(Brienne can still hear the _tap tap tap_ of the pencil as she’s trying to fall asleep _._ When Tyrion had told them _two weeks_ , it had felt so sudden. Now, the seconds tick by like hours.)

They make the call to the twins’ school on Monday morning, tell them that _the kids came down with a nasty bug, and we’re trying to get them well before we go away for the weekend._ They make the same call to Pod’s school, and Brienne feels some regret that he won’t be able to finish the few months he has left before he graduates. In truth, he’d probably be able to last the week without telling any of his classmates, but they need him at home with the kids, and she feels some regret about that too—about using him in that way. She has to shake that off, though, because they need to head to the bar to meet Tyrion, and she needs to ask him all those questions she has about what they can expect across the border. _You’ll have a place to stay, that I know for sure_ , Tyrion says. _But the rest—I don’t have any details. They only said they’ll take care of you._

(There is very little comfort to find in a response like that.)

Tyrion has their passports ready—passports that make all six of them citizens of their new home. She and Jaime already had their own stash of fake passports that proclaimed them—and the twins—citizens of multiple countries, but those fake passports were prepared by the very organisation they are trying to escape, so they’re all useless now. In any case, they didn’t have identification for Pod or Sansa, so they would have needed that from Tyrion regardless. Brienne flips through the pages of the passports Tyrion supplied, runs her finger over the strange names, stares at pictures of faces simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. _They look so real_ , she says stupidly. _They are_ , he replies, _in a manner of speaking_. He hands them a duffel bag with disguises to match those pictures.

(She unzips the bag, and there are wigs in there, for the _children_. It’s the most twisted game of dress-up that they’ve ever played.)

That evening, they gather everyone in the living room to go over the details. All the kids have to do, really, is keep quiet and follow along, but Brienne and Jaime had decided it would be best for them to at least know what to expect. When they’re done sharing the bare bones of the plan, Tommen starts crying again— _it’s just so real, Daddy_ —and Jaime has to sit with him on the couch for a long time in order to calm him down. Bear curls up in Tommen’s lap, confused by his master’s tears, unsuspecting of his imminent removal from the house. Myrcella just goes up to their room without another word. Brienne stands—wants to follow her—doesn’t. She winces when she hears the door close. To her surprise, Sansa comes up to her then, and gives her a tentative hug. _She’ll come around_ , Sansa whispers in her ear, and Brienne has to hold back her tears.

( _They say she’s not our real mother._ )

On Tuesday morning, Jaime goes to the bank to withdraw some cash. It’s enough to tide them over for a while, but not enough to raise any alarms later, when there’ll inevitably be someone searching for clues to indicate if their disappearance was planned. They already have some money on hand too, enough for a getaway, though it never hurts to have more. They won’t have his family’s wealth to lean on any longer.

(Jaime tells her he’s been withdrawing cash incrementally since the night they dug up Jorah’s grave. He didn’t have a plan—just a vague inclination that they might require it some day—and when he asks if she’s mad, she finds that she’s more relieved than anything.)

Late that night, when all the kids are asleep, they go from room to room, collecting everything related to their work that they’ll need to destroy. “Hey,” she hears Jaime call when they’re going through their bedroom, and turns to see him holding one red cloak, and one blue. She walks up to him, runs her hand over the fabric, over the machine-embroidered sigils that represent their names—the names they were assigned, not born with. _It’s who we are, now,_ she’d told Jaime, before they’d said their vows at that small sept by the beach. _It’s the people we’ve grown to be, together._ She remembers how Tommen, held up by Pod, had struggled to remove her maiden’s cloak at the ceremony, and she can’t help but laugh at the memory of it. The sound feels so alien in her throat.

(Those cloaks—she hadn’t even liked them very much, hadn’t liked that they were store-bought—they’ll have to leave them behind too.)

It’s Wednesday morning, and Myrcella still won’t speak to them. Brienne is starting to wonder if they’ll have to leave this house, this country, with only silence between them and their daughter. They comb through the house another time on Wednesday afternoon, this time with Pod, just to make sure there isn’t any evidence left behind of all the errands he’s had to run for the Centre. At dinner, Brienne thinks for a moment that Myrcella is looking at them like there’s something she desperately wants to say, but that moment passes. It’ll be silence between them after all.

Then, as they’re getting ready for bed, they hear a knock at their bedroom door.

Brienne opens it to see Myrcella and Tommen standing there in their pyjamas. “Can we come in?” Myrcella asks, hesitantly. It’s the longest sentence she’s said to them in days. Brienne can only nod in response, and opens the door a little wider to let them in. Jaime waves the kids over to their bed, but while Tommen climbs in eagerly, Myrcella just gingerly perches herself on one corner. When Brienne moves to sit next to her daughter, she has to prime herself for Myrcella to leap from her seat at the proximity.

She doesn’t. That’s something, isn’t it?

None of them speak for the next few seconds. Brienne wants to ask if Myrcella is… gods, she doesn’t know what to ask. _Are you still mad?_ That question feels so dismissive, as if this is a mood that Myrcella just has to get over, as if they haven’t just upended her entire life. She should be angry, and upset, and afraid. She should be allowed to feel all those emotions for a very long time.

“I’m sorry,” Myrcella finally says. “Mum. I’m sorry.”

 _Mum_. It feels so good to hear her say it that she doesn’t care anymore that Myrcella’s stopped calling her _Mummy_. Brienne reaches over to hold Myrcella’s hand. “We’re the ones who should be sorry. What we’re doing—it isn’t fair to any of you.”

Myrcella nods, and leans her head on Brienne’s arm.

“You know,” Brienne says, giving Myrcella’s hand a squeeze, “you have every right to be scared. We’re scared too, your dad and I. But we’re doing this together, okay?”

Myrcella nods again. “I—I’m sorry I said you lied. About being my mum. I mean—I didn’t think—I don’t know.”

“We don’t believe it,” Tommen cuts in, and Brienne looks over her shoulder to see him snuggled up with Jaime. “Those other kids—they’re just being mean.”

Brienne fixes her gaze on Tommen then, on Tommen next to Jaime. Of course she’s known it all along—how much they look alike—but tonight, it’s as if she’s seeing her son anew. Jaime. Tommen. Myrcella. Hells, _Joffrey_. The same golden hair, the same green eyes. The same line to their nose, the same curl of their lips. There is nothing in their look that resembles her at all. Subconsciously, she lifts her free hand to her own face, traces the cut of her jaw; she sees a loose strand of her straw-blonde hair out of the corner of her eye, so much lighter than the hair of the three other people in this room. One day, even if that day would have been a couple of years down the road, the twins would have looked in a mirror and realised it. The rumours floating around school—it only hastened this realisation, no matter how much the twins have wanted to deny it these past months.

 _There’s no other choice_. It’s a truth she needs to give them.

“Hey.” Brienne pats Myrcella on the thigh. “Come here. I want to tell you something.” She shifts herself so that her back is against the pillows, and motions for Myrcella to join her. Myrcella clambers over so that she’s half-sitting on Brienne’s lap, with all four of their legs stretched out before them.

“Brienne,” Jaime says, and there’s a note of warning in it.

“It’s okay,” she replies. “They should know.”

“Know what?” Myrcella asks, and she has that wild look in her eyes again. “There’s more?”

Brienne brings her left arm around Myrcella, and her right hand to Tommen’s arm. “First of all, I want you to know that I love you both very much.”

Myrcella burrows her face in Brienne’s neck at that. “You’re scaring us again.”

“It’s not anything to be scared of, honey, I promise.” She feels Jaime run his stump over her left arm, and looks over to give him a small smile. “You know that I love Pod very much too,” she continues, “even though he only came to live with us a few years ago. Even though he had a different mum and dad.”

“So it’s true?” Tommen whispers in alarm, sitting up from beneath the criss-cross of her hand and Jaime’s arms. “You’re not our real mum?”

Brienne feels Myrcella stiffen, and tightens her hold on her.

“Hey,” Jaime jumps in, tapping Tommen on the nose with his finger. “She’s your _real_ mum, okay? She raised you.”

“Oh.” Tommen sinks back down again. “So what happened to—our, our, other mum?”

“The woman that gave birth to both of you,” Jaime says, “your _birth_ mother—she couldn’t take care of you. She wasn’t—she wasn’t well.”

It’s not the whole truth, of course. But it was what Jaime’s cousin had claimed in essence, when she’d given up the twins. Given up this whole life that Brienne has lived.

“But your mum has been here almost all your lives,” Jaime goes on. “And she loves you. I know she does, and you know she does. That’s what matters most.”

Brienne smiles at Jaime again, leans over to kiss him, much to Tommen’s chagrin. “Ew, gross,” he squeals from under them.

“One day, Tommen,” Jaime says, when they break apart, “you’ll want to kiss someone else just like that. Someone who isn’t a cat.”

Tommen doesn’t respond, and when Brienne looks down, he’s just staring up at her curiously.

“What is it, baby?”

“If you were our birth mother,” he asks, “does that mean we would have blue eyes like you, instead of green?”

“Maybe,” she laughs. That sound doesn’t feel so alien in her throat tonight. “It depends. You might still have your dad’s eyes.”

“Oh.” Tommen covers his eyes with his hands. “I wish mine were blue.”

“What’s wrong with green?” Jaime protests.

“Green is fine,” Tommen shrugs, “but blue is better. Especially if they’re blue like Mummy’s.”

Jaime pouts at Brienne when he hears that, but before she can console him about such a grievous insult, she feels something wet on her neck. She looks down to see Myrcella rubbing her eyes with her fists.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, pressing her lips to Myrcella’s hair. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner.”

Myrcella shakes her head. “I just—I wish you could be our birth mother too,” she mumbles.

Over the years, Brienne had found herself wishing the same. She knows now that it’s ludicrous—perhaps she even knew it then, and perhaps she’ll still need to remind herself of it in future—but there were times when she thought perhaps it would make a difference, make her a better mother. It’s not something she can ever change, though. It’s not something she can choose. But being their mum, their _real mum_ , that’s a choice she can make every single day.

“Even if I was your birth mother,” Brienne tells Myrcella, and kisses her on the cheek, “I couldn’t love you any more than I already do. I would _burst_. I really wouldn’t want that to happen.”

Myrcella lets out a tiny giggle. “Me neither,” she agrees. Then, her smile falls again. “Mum,” she asks quietly, “Will you promise us that everything will be fine?”

And that’s the real question, isn’t it? Will everything be fine? Will we still be able to have a normal life? That’s the fear, the need, at the core of it all. It’s why the twins never told them what’s been happening at school. It’s why Myrcella hasn’t been able to speak to them for five days. The twins have had the rug pulled out from underneath them—glacially over the past year, then all at once this past Saturday. Now they’re being asked to just _trust_ the very people who’ve lied to them from the start, as if that trust hadn’t been abused since the day they were assigned to the Programme. Because it isn’t just Brienne and Jaime who took on this assignment—it’s the twins too, even if they’ve been ignorant of it all this time. They’ve had choices made for them too, choices they deserve to make on their own. Brienne can’t fathom why it took her so long to see it.

She strokes Myrcella’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “I want to be honest with you.” It feels important, this honesty, just slightly more important than _fine_. “There’s a lot that we don’t know, and I don’t want to tell you that everything will be fine, if I’m not one hundred percent sure that it will be.” Brienne slips her other hand through Tommen’s, and grips it tight. “But I can promise you that your dad and I—we will try our very best to keep us all safe, and together. Just like we’ve always done. Okay?”

Myrcella and Tommen both nod, though there’s a hint of a frown in both their faces as they let Brienne’s words sink in. She’s just starting to question if she’s chosen her words wisely, when Jaime pats Tommen on his tummy and says, “Tell you what. Why don’t both of you sleep with us tonight?”

The twins are so eager to take up Jaime on his offer that any worries are lost in the struggle to fit everyone under the covers. They haven’t done this in years, all four of them sleeping side-by-side in this bed, and it’s so much more snug than Brienne remembers. The twins are only nine—almost ten—already so grown she can’t quite believe it. She’s grateful, once again, that Jaime had the foresight all those years back to request a bed that was _large enough_. What was it that he’d said about it a week ago? _The small comforts—whatever makes things easier—they matter._

As she switches off the lamp by her bedside, and tries to fall asleep in this house for the second last time, Brienne lets herself feel the warmth of Myrcella, and Tommen, and Jaime beside her. She lets herself think that maybe Jaime was wrong. With an assignment like this, it isn’t beds, or baths, or three-bedroom houses that makes things easier. Not in any significant way. Instead, it’s the man on the other side of this bed, and it’s the two children between them. It’s the teenage boy downstairs, and maybe one day, it’ll be the teenage girl two rooms over too. They make things easier, even when the choices are impossibly difficult. Because they _matter_ —more than any war, any cause, any country that demands their sacrifice. And they’ll continue to matter, long after this assignment is over. That is what she will fight for. That is what she believes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went into this chapter wanting to devote as much as I could do this whole process of telling the twins, which was initially supposed to be the second half of the last chapter. The idea for them to find out that Brienne isn't their biological mother came to me pretty recently, and I hope it worked for you – ultimately, this is a story about a marriage and the family they built around it, so I wanted to ground the concluding chapters in those dynamics.
> 
> On paper, this is actually the last official Brienne POV chapter. But who knows, my own writing may surprise me, so I won't get all emotional about it until I'm sure.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	34. Resolutions

In the early hours of Friday morning, six people—two adults, two teenagers, and two children—step out of a three-bedroom house for the final time. Altogether, they bring with them four backpacks, three duffel bags, two small suitcases, and one cat carrier. Nothing else.

At this point, these six people still go by the following names: the two adults are Jaime Lannister and his wife Brienne Lannister (née Tarth); the two teenagers are Podrick Payne and Alayne Stone (who, if one thought to look, bears more than a passing resemblance to a missing girl named Sansa Stark); the two children are Myrcella Lannister and her twin brother Tommen Lannister.

They will not go by these names for much longer.

Most of the neighbourhood is still asleep, except for one man standing on his porch at a house across the street. He raises a hand in greeting, and the man who goes by Jaime Lannister raises his hand in return. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The Lannisters are going for a short family trip, that is all, and they’re leaving this early to get a head start on a long drive. Later, over breakfast, the man across the street will wonder why he saw six people get into the car, instead of the five that he thought lived in that three-bedroom house. He will mention this out loud to his wife, and she will inform him of what Brienne Lannister told her two days ago—that the Lannisters had invited their foster son’s girlfriend to join them on their trip. He will nod, say to her that _it seems like just yesterday they took that boy in_ , or something equally bland.

It will be days before they realise the Lannisters haven’t returned from this trip. A week before they think to call the police. A month before they decide, once and for all, that the Lannisters are never coming back.

They will never know the real reason why.

When they’ve loaded all their bags into the trunk, the Lannisters bundle themselves into their family car. It’s a bit of a squeeze with two teenagers in the back instead of the usual one, and the cat carrier having to fit at the feet of the twins. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll be abandoning this car soon enough for a larger one, and then they’ll be on a train, and then—

There are more stages to this plan, but they won’t think about that right now. The occupant of the cat carrier—a cat incongruously named Bear—meows pitifully as the car pulls out of the driveway. The boy who goes by Tommen Lannister pokes a finger in to stroke his head.

They head in the direction, not of the nearest train station, but of a much smaller, much less crowded one, much farther off. On the way, they turn into a secluded rest stop—there is only one other car parked here—and head for the restrooms with one of the three duffel bags. All six of them crowd into the women’s bathroom, which is promptly locked from the inside by the man who goes by Jaime Lannister. Then, they remove the contents of the bag—wigs, glasses, makeup, a change of clothes for each of them.

When they emerge from the bathroom, their names are no longer Jaime Lannister, Brienne Lannister, Podrick Payne, Alayne Stone, Myrcella Lannister, and Tommen Lannister. Their names, their faces, now match the ones in the passports that were only given to them this past Monday.

They throw the duffel bag in the trash on their way out.

The man who went by Jaime Lannister briefly disappears into the men’s bathroom, and when he comes back out, there’s a key in his hand. He walks towards the other car, where the two teenagers and two children are waiting with four backpacks, two duffel bags, two small suitcases, and one cat carrier. The woman who went by Brienne Lannister is already driving off in their family car.

They meet up with her about ten minutes’ drive away, where she is waiting for them by the side of the road. Their family car is gone. There is nothing around them but forest.

When they arrive at the station, they still have twenty-three minutes to spare before their train arrives. But they don’t head for the platform just yet. The man who went by Jaime Lannister spots a familiar figure, a man not much more than four, four-and-a-half feet tall, lingering at a corner of the parking lot. To anyone else, it might seem like an odd place for this man to wait. To someone who knows the position of the few security cameras at the station, it would be an entirely logical choice.

They leave the four backpacks, two duffel bags, and two small suitcases in the car for the moment, though the boy who went by Tommen Lannister insists on bringing the cat carrier with them. They approach the man together, and up close, one can see that he has a scar across his nose, and that he has one green eye, and one black. The man who went by Jaime Lannister kneels, embraces him, calls him “brother”.

“Brother?” repeats the girl who went by Myrcella Lannister.

“Come here.” Her father beckons her closer, and her twin brother too. “I want you to meet your uncle.”

They walk cautiously towards the man with the scar across his nose. The boy who went by Tommen Lannister says, “We had an uncle all this time?”

“Hello,” the man with the scar greets them, solemnly holding out his hand for the boy to shake, then the girl. “I’m very glad to finally meet you. I’m sorry it’ll only be for a few minutes.”

The boy and the girl stay quiet—too in shock, perhaps, that they are meeting an uncle whom they never knew existed—until the man casts a glance at the cat carrier. “So,” he says to the boy, “you’re the one who insisted on bringing the cat?”

The boy nods, allows himself to smile shyly. “His name is Bear.”

“Bear?” He bends down to peer into the carrier. “That’s a curious name for a cat.”

“He comes up with the best names,” the girl interjects, feeling the need to defend her brother.

“It sounds like he does. I’m sure there isn’t another cat named Bear in the whole world.”

“Are you really our uncle?” asks the girl. “Our birth uncle?”

“Your _birth_ uncle?” The man with the scar gives his brother a bemused look.

“We told them,” explains the man who went by Jaime Lannister, tipping his head towards his wife. “That she isn’t their birth mother.”

“Ah. Well, yes. I suppose I am your _birth_ uncle.” _Much to the displeasure of your birth grandfather_ , he might think. If he does, he doesn’t say.

“Will you come visit us, then?” asks the boy this time. “In our new country?”

The man with the scar shrugs. “Maybe. But not for a while, I think.”

“Oh,” replies the girl. “Are you doing the secret job too?”

“Enough questions, honey,” says the woman who went by Brienne Lannister, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “We’ll tell you more later, okay?”

At that, the man with the scar turns to the girl who went by Alayne Stone, who had also once gone by Sansa Stark. “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. About your family. They were—they were good people.”

She nods, tries to thank him, but no sound comes out. She slips her hand around the arm of the boy who went by Podrick Payne, and inches closer to him. The man with the scar observes this, then shares another look with his brother. _Interesting_ , that look says. _It might be nothing_ , his brother replies wordlessly.

“Thank you again,” the woman who went by Brienne Lannister addresses the man with the scar. “For everything. For arranging this.”

“Of course. You know which station to get off at, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And there’ll be a car there for you. Keys at the drop site. Once you’re across the border, someone will meet you—”

“We know,” says the man who went by Jaime Lannister. “Don’t worry.”

“Alright,” replies the man with the scar. “Just—alright. Be careful.”

The man who went by Jaime Lannister is about to get to his feet, but stops, stays bent on one knee, looks his brother in the eye. “I already know what you’ll say, but—will you come? As soon as you can?”

The man with the scar hesitates, before obliging his brother with, “I’ll try.” It isn’t much different from the answers he’s given his brother before.

“We won’t have a way to contact you.”

“I’ll find you.” He looks at his watch. “You should go.”

The brothers embrace once more before they part.

At the platform—there’s nobody there, nobody going in this direction from this station at this time of the morning—the boy who went by Tommen Lannister tugs at his father’s wrist.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s our uncle’s name?”

The man sighs. “I’ll tell you some other time,” is the response he decides on, mostly because he doesn’t know which of his brother’s names to give. He realises, suddenly, that his children still think that he was born with the name Jaime Lannister, that their mother was born with the name Brienne Tarth.

“Promise?”

He looks down at his son. “I swear I will. When it’s safe.”

One day—when it’s safe—maybe they’ll tell their children their real names too. Maybe they’ll even teach their children their language, more than the few words taught to them once by the boy who went by Podrick Payne. He remembers how his wife had sounded the few times he’d heard her speak it, and wonders if, in their new life, she’ll be able to do that more. It seems paradoxical, but now that they’re no longer spies—now that they’ve effectively betrayed their country—perhaps they’ll be more at liberty to act in ways they would have back home.

He doesn’t know what to make of that fact.

“What’s so dangerous about knowing his name?” his daughter asks, poking at the ground with one foot. “We won’t tell.”

“Even if you won’t,” her mother says. “Names—they tie you to places. To people. It’s why we have to change ours, at least for a while. You remember what we told you about that, don’t you?”

The girl nods. “But can’t we use our real names, if we keep them a secret? A secret just for us?”

The woman who went by Brienne Lannister reaches down, tucks a stray wisp of her daughter’s hair back underneath her wig. “That depends on how good you are at keeping secrets.”

Just then, the boy who went by Podrick Payne cranes his neck over the platform. “The train’s coming,” he announces, “I can see it.”

They gather their things—four backpacks, two duffel bags, two small suitcases, and one cat carrier—and move towards the edge of the platform. They watch in silence as the train approaches, these six people whose names are no longer Jaime, or Brienne, or Podrick, or Sansa, or Myrcella, or Tommen. But names are a small sacrifice to make. When they board that train, they will do so as a husband, and a wife, with the two children they’ve taken into their care, alongside the two that they’ve raised. They’ll be a perfectly ordinary family. And they’ll have their entire lives to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the truth is, this chapter is the ending I’d envisioned for this fic since the start. Ambiguous, but with the entire family together, heading some place that will hopefully be safer for them. Kind of like, uh, The Sound of Music. I deliberately chose to write this chapter with a third-person omniscient POV, since it’s the end of the story of ‘Jaime’ and ‘Brienne’. I also ended the chapter with two lines from the first chapter ([Names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19711024/chapters/46647766)), one each from Jaime’s POV and Brienne’s POV.
> 
> At some point, I had this idea to write an optional epilogue as a separate one-shot – the fluffiest, most indulgent epilogue that a story like this would allow. I’m still going to write it (hence Chapter 35), but I no longer see it as ‘optional’, because I think Jaime’s side of the story isn’t quite complete yet until we get a glimpse of this third phase of his life. So for everyone who’s been commenting how much you want to see them safe and happy, I HEAR YOU. It’s happening.
> 
> I won’t spoil the ending of The Americans, but suffice to say it wasn’t quite so warm (though still satisfying for those characters’ journeys, in my opinion). There were trains and cars and disguises involved too though!
> 
> Thanks as always to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat)! And I’m on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/)!


	35. Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I knew it was going to be indulgent. I just didn’t realise it was going to be 10k words of indulgence.

It is difficult at first. Of course it is. Even with the protection of this country’s government—there’s the surveillance teams, and an agent who checks in on them at least once a week—it still feels like they have to look over their shoulders all the time. It is worse, Jaime feels, that they are given a place to live in the country’s second largest city. It’s in a less populated part of the second largest city, but it is a _city_ , and there are people _everywhere_ , and you never _know_.

(And _fuck_ , it _is_ difficult, and he just wants something of their old life to hold onto—something of the good parts. So he is going to call himself Jaime if he feels like it, and he is going to call his wife Brienne if he feels like it, and they are going to call their children Myrcella, and Tommen, and Pod, and Sansa— _Sansa_ , not _Alayne_ —if they fucking feel like it. Their new names are not covers for them to maintain. Not in the way the Centre had ordered them to do so in that past life, the way the Centre had told them to forget everything from before and never speak of it again. They won’t live by the Centre’s rules any longer.

They will only use these names with each other, though. And there will be no Lannister, no Payne, no Stark. It is difficult, and he wants something to hold onto, but he isn’t stupid.)

Sometimes, Jaime feels bad for thinking it is difficult. They can’t complain about the apartment they were provided, even if there is nothing in particular to praise about it either. It’s a roof over their heads, and that’s more than can be said for a lot of people in this world. It might be smaller than their old house overall, but it’s certainly large enough to accommodate all six of them—it has four rooms instead of three, so Pod gets his own room again, and Sansa too. And there’s a bunk bed for the twins, which they like, and don’t fight over. Myrcella had wanted to sleep up top from the moment she’d set eyes on it, and Tommen prefers the bottom bunk so it would be easier for him to tend to Bear, though the cat has no issues exploring the higher realms of their room every now and then.

But Jaime and Brienne’s bed is… well, it’s a bed for two people. It’s not this government’s fault that they are two people who are taller than average. He reminds himself that they were both trained to sleep in places much worse than a too-small bed, and there isn’t much space in their room for a bed any larger than that, anyhow. Yet, every morning he wakes up with a crick in his neck, and turns to see a furrow in Brienne’s brow. His wife is far too polite and grateful and good to say _I hate this too-small bed in this too-small room_ , but he doesn’t think he’s imagining things when he observes that her tone in the mornings is always two notches shy of grumpy. He doesn’t think he’s imagining things when he observes that there’s not much Brienne does to make the apartment _theirs._ He knows she’s used to living simply, and of course he doesn’t expect her to do _anything_ , but even in their past life, she’d pick up some flowers for their living room every couple of weeks, or gods, install a shelf or something if she felt the house needed one. She doesn’t do any of that here, though they were told that they could.

(There’s also hardly any room to spar. There’s no use for sparring anymore, but they want to, and they miss it, and there isn’t room.)

Then, there is the issue of schools. First, Pod is told he’d have to do a whole extra year of high school, possibly one and a _half_ , because they have an entirely different curriculum here. It is _ridiculous_ , because the boy is _clever_ —he knows _six_ languages, and fine, Jaime remembers once calling him _daft_ , but they’d trained more than enough common sense into him over the years. He is much smarter than his classmates, Jaime reckons, even if the boy is too nice to say it, and now they’re saying he has to do one and a half _years_ when he’d only had a couple months left before graduating. And Sansa—hells, the girl wouldn’t even go back to school at all. She says she doesn’t feel ready, and Jaime can’t say he blames her considering she’d first met Joffrey in a coffee shop where she was _studying_ , and he’d gone on to—

Anyway. He can’t say he blames her. Now, she spends her days between their apartment and the library—at least they have a decent-sized one nearby—and promises to let them know when she’s ready. That day hasn’t come yet.

As for Myrcella and Tommen, that’s a whole other story. Their teacher comes up to him one day when he drops them off at school, says that they seem to manage their work fine, but they don’t seem interested in making any friends, won’t interact with anyone but each other unless they need to. She asks if Jaime knows why that is, and he only shakes his head and says he’ll talk to his wife, because he can’t possibly tell her the truth—that their children were whisked away from everything they’d ever known with barely a week’s notice, with no chance to say goodbye, and are now afraid of getting too attached to anyone that they might then have to part from at some indeterminate point in the future.

But as withdrawn as they are reported to be at school, they are the exact _opposite_ at home. They’ve become more—he doesn’t want to describe them as _clingy_ , yet that’s exactly what they are, and what they have every right to be. They’re that way with him and Brienne, and with Pod, and even with Sansa, and while it isn’t necessarily unwelcome, it’s just… it’s as if the twins are acting this way out of some fear that the ground will fall apart beneath their feet. Which it already did, once.

Still, maybe it isn’t _difficult_ , Jaime tries to convince himself. Maybe it’s just an adjustment period. This government is good to them, for the most part—it provides a roof over their heads, and schools for their children, and a decent enough stipend every month to cover their living expenses. It’s not a huge sum, not compared to how much his father had provided for their family in their past life, but Brienne manages it well, and they haven’t had to touch the cash they brought with them. She even saves some money here and there, all while keeping four children and one cat fed, and Jaime has to marvel at it. He’s never had the first idea about saving money—there was never any need to do it.

It’s generous, this stipend, more generous considering they aren’t expected to do anything besides laying low. But _damn_ if they aren’t being driven mad with nothing to do. Nonetheless, it isn’t wise for them to just walk out there and get a job, and in any case, what paper qualifications do they have? All these years of training, and experience, and they don’t have anything to show for it in the _real world_ , no certificates or references or connections. They would be qualified for a whole lot more, Jaime thinks, if they could waltz into a place with _espionage_ written on their resumé. But they can’t do that.

Until the agent that checks on them once a week asks if they would come into the office the following day.

 _The office_ , he’d called it. Just like they’d referred to that unit that masqueraded as their travel agency. But he had said the words like he was describing the sterile premises of some run-of-the-mill accounting firm, not this government’s intelligence organisation. Tyrion told them there was no expectation that they should work for this organisation, and he was right, to a certain extent. That day, it is made clear that while they are under no obligation to reveal anything they know—they wouldn’t lose their apartment, or their living expenses, as some form of retaliation—it would certainly be very helpful if they could answer a few questions. It isn’t _expected_ , but it would be _helpful_ , and Jaime doesn’t like the way they say the word _helpful_. _Think about it_ , they say, and he doesn’t like the way they say that either. It is, however, a job that he qualifies for with a resumé that says _espionage_.

He discusses it with Brienne in their too-small bedroom that night, though he already knows how she’ll feel about it. Her position regarding the Centre might have been drastically altered, but as for the Cause itself, in its purest form, there is still a part of her that believes in it deeply. No matter how she twists it, the organisation’s request won’t sit well with her—it would still feel like a betrayal of their country, of her principles. Jaime has little of such qualms, however—it’s become clear in his mind, after all these years, where to draw the lines between Centre, Cause, country, family—so he suggests that he do it alone. He knows most of what she knows, anyway, and much more than that from his life before her. In fact, he’d guessed in that office today that what they’d really wanted was the information _he_ had, as the elder son of the General, and they’d only asked Brienne to come as a courtesy.

“It’d be good to have some leverage,” he tells her, as he paces about, swinging his prosthetic by its straps as he goes. “To remind them of our value, if we want something else from them down the road.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she mumbles, hugging her knees to herself where she’s sitting on their too-small bed.

He stops, and turns to face her. “As long as you won’t hate me for doing it.”

“ _Jaime_ ,” she says, lifting her head sharply. “I’m only worried that this will put you in some kind of danger. What’s the point in coming all this way only to expose ourselves?”

“Fair. All the more reason to show them we’re worth protecting, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” she repeats, putting her chin between her knees.

He places his prosthetic on the dresser behind him. “You’re sure you won’t look at me and think I’m a traitor?”

Brienne stares at him like he’s just said the most nonsensical thing she’s ever heard, which makes Jaime feel slightly bruised. It really isn’t _that_ nonsensical, considering how she used to watch him before he told her about Targaryen, when she thought he wasn’t looking. He still remembers it. She opens her mouth as if to argue, then closes it again, and—something shifts in her face. He observes her as she stretches her legs—bare, _long_ —and sits back into her pillow. “If I do,” she half drawls, tilting her head, “then I guess you’ll just have to make me forget it.”

“How would you propose I do that, wife?” he asks, walking slowly towards her.

“Oh,” she replies, one finger twirling in her hair, which she’s grown out almost to her shoulders already. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, husband.”

Too-small beds are still good for some things.

And so it is, that whenever the agent asks Jaime to come into the office, he does. They call it _consulting_ , and it’s not too bad, really—they hardly ever ask him questions about topics that make him truly uncomfortable, probably because they don’t have the intelligence in the first place to even compose those questions. Or perhaps they already know the answers. Regardless, if there is ever anything he feels better withholding, it’s not as if he can’t just… withhold it. Particularly if he doesn’t think it’ll do them much good to have that knowledge. He only hopes that what he _does_ give them will actually go some way to stopping this war, like his brother said they hoped to do.

One day, a few weeks in, Jaime decides to ask them a question of his own. He grits his teeth, preparing himself for the answer, and asks, _is my brother okay?_ But they only shake their heads and say they’re not at liberty to disclose that information.

He doesn’t ask them again after that.

That’s how it goes for almost a year. Alright, so it might not be _ideal_ , but it’s _fine_ , isn’t it? Two nights before they’d left it all behind, the twins had asked them if everything would be _fine_ , and it _is_. They have a roof over their heads, and at least three of the children are in school, and they have their living expenses taken care of. But Jaime lies awake some nights, and thinks that besides being _fine_ , it is also _difficult_. Hells, he’ll even allow himself to think they’re fucking _miserable_ , then feel guilty for thinking it, then feel indignant that he feels guilty about thinking they’re miserable when he can’t honestly say that any one of them is truly _happy_. They might be safe, and together—and there is no sleeping-with, or lying-to, or killing-of anybody—but they aren’t _happy._

So, ten months in, and desperate for something other than this damn apartment in this damn city, Jaime brings his family to the beach.

Well, his family, and one agent. It’s someone new, not the usual guy they send to check on them, and she doesn’t seem all that pleased to be accompanying them. He’s not sure if they sent her to protect their family, or to prevent them from escaping. If it’s the former, he’s pretty sure he and Brienne and even Pod will do a better job than she can. If it’s the latter, she doesn’t have a chance in all the seven hells against Brienne one-on-one. Still, the organisation had insisted that she tag along. She drives her own car at least, which means they don’t have to endure an awkward two-hour journey with a stranger in the vehicle, though she tails them so closely that Jaime almost feels her presence in their car anyway.

Agent or not—it’s nice, this beach. Not as nice as the one they’d visited the weekend he and Brienne said their vows, and it’s certainly more crowded, but it’s nice enough. It’s also near enough that they could drive here and back within a day, and even though they’ll be exhausted by the end of it, Jaime wonders why he never thought to do this sooner. He will never get over his hatred of sand, but he will always enjoy watching his family be _happy_ , and Brienne looks just that with Myrcella in her arms. Even Tommen is brave enough today to join his mother and sister among the waves, his own dislike for sand be damned. And Pod and Sansa—well. Nothing has come of Pod’s crush, still, which Jaime thinks is for the best given what Sansa has endured. But as he watches them stroll along the shore, he thinks maybe she smiles at Pod a little differently now. Not just out of gratitude, or friendship.

Once he’s had his fill of sand and sea, Jaime walks towards a shaded path nearby, where there’s a stone bench on which he can sit and watch the water. He casts his eyes over the horizon, and lets them rest on an island just visible from the shore.

“Hey,” he says, calling the agent over from where she’s standing a little way off. “That island over there. People live there?”

“Sure do. About a thousand, I think?”

 _Huh._ “More than I expected.”

“It’s nice. Quaint. I wouldn’t be able to live all the way over there, though, city girl like me.”

“Is it that far off from the mainland?”

“Not really. Maybe thirty minutes by ferry. Forty, tops. But that’s just between there and the coast, and then there’s the two-hour drive to the city. That’d be too much for me, personally.”

It doesn’t sound like too much to Jaime at all. It sounds _perfect_. He thinks on it for a few days, makes some inquiries when he’s next in the office, finds out that the organisation _does_ have access to one property large enough for the family on the island, although it’s a bit of a fixer-upper. He says he’ll speak to his wife, but informs them that he has every intention of moving his whole family there and paying for the renovations himself if he has to, then assures them if they need him to do any _consulting_ —they need him less and less now—he’ll make the trip over whenever they call.

“You can’t be serious,” Brienne says, when he tells her in bed the next night. “You want to uproot this entire family again, after we’ve spent this long settling in—”

“We’re _hardly_ settled in, wife, even though it’s been almost a year, and the kids aren’t _happy_ —”

“They need _stability_ , Jaime.”

“Damn it, Brienne, this isn’t _stability_. It’s barely a _home_ , and you know it.”

She doesn’t respond. He knows she knows he’s right.

“You’re telling me,” he says, reaching over to grasp her hand, “that given a choice, you wouldn’t want to live on an island again? Surrounded by the sea?”

She retracts her hand, though he sees a flash of yearning in her eyes. “You’re not playing fair.”

“How about this,” he grins, and wraps her in his arms, “we bring the whole family over for a weekend, go see this house, make a trip out of it?”

Brienne fixes him with a pointed stare. “And we won’t make a decision without consulting the whole family.”

“We won’t.”

So, it’s two weekends later, and they’re boarding a ferry to the island. It departs from a point further north than the beach they’d visited a few weeks before, though it was still a two-hour drive from their apartment. But Myrcella and Tommen were so excited by the prospect of crossing the sea for the first time that they didn’t mind the long car ride at all. The twins stay out on the deck for the duration of the trip across the water, endlessly fascinated by the blue of the seas, by the island drawing closer and closer, and the mainland drifting further and further away. At one point, they run up to Jaime and pull on his arm and swear that they saw dolphins, and he feels inclined to believe them even though he can’t spot any himself.

Pod and Sansa spend the whole time sitting on a bench at the bow of the boat, speaking and laughing softly to each other. Sansa’s auburn hair—it’s back to auburn now, though much shorter than before—flutters in the wind prettily, in a way that an eighteen-year-old boy would find mesmerising even if he wasn’t already half in love with her. It’s so sweet that when Jaime sits down with Brienne next to them, he can’t help but comment offhandedly, “Romantic, isn’t it?” And he knows even without looking that the two teenagers blush, and shift a little bit further apart, and try their hardest to look everywhere else but at each other. Brienne smacks him on the arm, though she too lets the corner of her mouth curl upwards, and Jaime has no choice but to lean over and kiss her right there.

Thankfully, he’d managed to convince the organisation that it really wasn’t necessary to send an agent along this time. In any case, they’d arranged to meet the caretaker of the property, a native of the island who also happens to be an agent too, albeit a former one, five years retired. The grizzled man talks little as he drives Jaime and the twins—with Brienne and Pod and Sansa following behind in a rental car—through the town centre, past the farms and the meadows and the streams and the low hills, and all the while the sea is just _there_. Jaime looks at the twins’ faces in the rearview mirror, and gods, they look so _happy_ , just from the drive. He wants them to look like that all the time.

They reach the far end of the island—at least, that’s what Jaime gathers, because the caretaker makes no effort to describe it—and they turn down a nondescript tree-lined dirt road that leads to a grove, and beyond that grove is—

A house. A two-storey house, with vines overrunning its walls, and a front yard bursting with weeds and wildflowers alike, bordered by a low stone wall, mossy. Nested in that wall is a simple wooden gate that opens onto a gravel path leading up to the front door. That door looks like it could use a fresh coat of paint, but besides that…

“It’s not much,” the caretaker says gruffly when they’re all gathered at the gate, “but it might be big enough for all of you.”

Jaime feels Brienne slip her hand into his as they walk up to the house.

“This is it,” he whispers.

“Hmm,” she replies, in a way that would sound noncommittal to anyone’s ears but his.

Jaime had been preparing himself for something utterly rundown on the inside, but when they step through the door, what they see is better than he’d dared hope. It’s barely furnished, yes, and some of the existing fittings need updating, but it’s serviceable enough that it won’t need a massive overhaul. The ground floor is divided into two sections: the larger section is empty save for a small dining table and two plastic chairs, but they could divide it into a living and a dining area, and there’s a proper kitchen towards the back of the house; the smaller section, through a door on the left, seems meant to be a sitting room of sorts, but could easily be converted into a bedroom if they need the space. It even has a small bathroom attached.

“Three rooms upstairs,” the caretaker says, interrupting Jaime’s thoughts of large-enough bedrooms with large-enough beds. The twins are already rushing up the wooden stairs before the man can continue with, “all empty except for a bed in one”. As Jaime is poking his head into the first two rooms—all decently-sized, though he feels a draft in the second room that he’ll have to investigate—he hears Myrcella call for him from the third.

“Dad, come look,” she says, pointing out the window, and he walks over to see a smaller building in the backyard, similarly overrun with vines, a tiny version of the house they’re standing in now.

“Garden shed,” offers the caretaker. It really looks much nicer, at least on the outside, than the word _shed_ suggests. When they head down and out the back door to investigate further, they see a flash of what Jaime _thinks_ is a ginger tabby running across the yard.

“A stray.” The caretaker again. “She comes and goes as she pleases.”

Jaime shares a look with Tommen, and almost bursts out laughing at his son’s wide-eyed eagerness. That’s Tommen’s decision made, then. Perhaps the stray won’t be a stray for much longer.

It’s Pod who enters the shed first, then the rest of the family. All seven of them including the caretaker fit in there just fine, even with the gardening tools that look like they haven’t been used in years. It _is_ too nice to be just a shed, and once they clear it out there should be space for a single bed, maybe even something slightly larger, and then some. They’ll have to swap the door out for something sturdier, and maybe tile the floor, but it _could_ work as a little house, even if the person who lives here will have to go into the house to use the bathroom. So Jaime slaps Pod on the back and says, “Bachelor pad?”

And Pod sputters, and blushes, and Jaime can’t figure out if the boy is embarrassed because they’ve offered him a space of his own, or because Jaime had called him a bachelor, or because his idea of a bachelor pad is a library all to himself and he’s already filling this room with books in his mind, until Jaime follows Pod’s line of sight out the shed’s small window to where Sansa has wandered into the yard. In the sunlight, she looks ethereal—peaceful, more peaceful than she’s looked in months—surrounded by all those weeds and wildflowers, and _oh_ , perhaps Pod doesn’t quite see the appeal in being a bachelor after all.

“How far are we from the sea?” Brienne asks when they’re back in the main house. “Seems like we’re pretty far inland.” For good reason, Jaime thinks, if this house has been used as a safe house—away from the shore, and the town centre, and any nosy neighbours, as far as he can tell.

“Might seem like it,” the caretaker replies, “but it’s maybe a twenty minute walk? Thirty if you stroll.”

So they stroll. Jaime tells the caretaker that they’ll meet him back in the town centre—they’ll have to squeeze into the rental car on the way back, but he wants his family to have the time to explore—and the man shrugs, mumbles something about going to the pub, and takes off. They’re through the grove and out into a meadow before Jaime realises he forgot to ask for directions, but Brienne tugs on his arm and points out a lighthouse in the distance. Well, where there’s a lighthouse, there must be a sea.

“Can we really move here, Dad?” Myrcella asks along the way.

“We can, if everyone agrees. There’s a lot of work we’ll need to do on the house, though.”

“I’ll help!”

“You will?”

She nods, but skips up front with Tommen before she can explain exactly _how_ she plans to help.

They reach a cliff’s edge not far off from the lighthouse, from which they can see a path leading down to a small beach. This beach isn’t as nice as the one they’d visited the weekend he and Brienne said their vows, and it isn’t even as nice as the one they’d visited a few weeks before, but Jaime already knows this will be his favourite of the three, because it’ll be _theirs_. While the twins are dragging Pod and Sansa in the direction of the path, he and Brienne stay at the cliff’s edge, observing the pristine blue waters together.

“I like this,” he murmurs. “The sea from the top of a cliff. No sand involved.”

Brienne lets out a laugh, and tucks both her arms tighter around his right bicep. “This is it,” she says, quietly, and puts her head on his shoulder. They watch the waves in silence for a while, until he feels a slight wetness through his shirt.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, putting his left hand over hers where it grips his elbow.

“Nothing.” She lifts her head, and out of the corner of his eye, Jaime sees her bring a hand to her cheek. “Just thinking about my father, that’s all.”

Some echo of a memory surfaces in his mind, something he thought he’d long forgotten, and he wonders now if it might actually help her. “What if we—we dedicated something to him?” he suggests, turning to face her.

“What do you mean?”

Jaime sighs. “My mother—when she passed, my father had her buried at my family home. And you know how we were hardly ever there, because my father wanted us at our house in the capital most of the time. So, when I was a child, and I, I needed to be alone. I would go into the garden, to this one tree that I knew she liked. And pretend it was her grave. Or maybe I pretended it was her, I don’t know, I was eight years old and stupid—” _that’s what Father had said—_

“ _Jaime._ ” Brienne puts a hand to his cheek.

“My point is,” he goes on, shaking away that other memory he thought he’d long forgotten too. “It helped. To have something to—to focus all my sadness on. Even though she wasn’t there. Maybe we could do that for your father too. Does that make sense?”

She nods, and another tear escapes her eye. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he replies, and kisses her cheek where the tear had fallen.

On their way back to the house, with the twins and Pod trailing behind them, Brienne catches Sansa by the arm. “I know everyone seems on board with this,” she says, “but you have as much say as any of us. If this doesn’t work for you—”

“No!” Sansa replies in alarm, “I mean—I mean, yes! I’m on board.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “It feels good. Feels like a fresh start.”

It does.

It’s still two months before they’re able to move into the house. There is no need for any major repairs—the draft in the second bedroom turns out to be the result of a faulty window, easily fixed—but they’ll have to renovate the bathrooms and Pod’s little house at least, for which Jaime hires a contractor as soon as he can. They need furniture too, for the entire place—some shipped over from the mainland, others commissioned from a local carpenter. The government agrees only to relocate them to the property, so these are all additional costs that they will need to shoulder.

To save some money, they decide to do what they can themselves—cleaning the house and clearing the garden, for example. So, a few days before the furniture is due to arrive, and with the renovations all but complete, they take the ferry over to the island with all their belongings—the amount of which had barely increased since they’d boarded that train a year ago—and put themselves up at a bed and breakfast in the town centre. Then, all six of them head to the house each day and scrub it from top to bottom. They get rid of all the weeds in the front garden and the backyard, and construct a small pile of rocks amidst the wildflowers to serve as Brienne’s father’s memorial. And they even give the front door its long overdue coat of paint—blue, they decide together.

By the next week, it’s all starting to feel like home. Even to Bear, who had spent the days in the bed and breakfast hiding under Tommen’s bed. The cat seemed overwhelmed, at first, by the increase in his territory—Myrcella and Tommen have their own rooms for the first time in their lives, Sansa’s in the room overlooking Pod’s little house out back, Jaime and Brienne have the converted sitting room on the ground floor, and then there’s the gardens and the grove and the meadow beyond. But each day Bear seems to find a new spot to curl up in and observe this new world of his. He’s even met the stray—or watched her cautiously from afar when she came to investigate the food Tommen had left out for her.

Fortunately, in those two months before the move, Pod finally graduated high school. He tells Jaime and Brienne that he wants a year or two off before even considering university, though his teachers say he has a good shot at a scholarship. He offers, instead, to help with homeschooling the twins, and tutoring Sansa too. When he hears this, Jaime has to breathe a sigh of relief—they’d decided to try homeschooling for the next year or two, but he was already feeling severely out of his depth at just the prospect of it, considering neither he nor Brienne had had much of a traditional education. What skills and knowledge they _do_ possess aren’t quite appropriate for imparting to their children (though the thought of teaching Myrcella to spar fills Jaime with some glee), so it’ll be good to have someone academically inclined on the team. Brienne, however, worries that they might be taking advantage of Pod— _we basically used him as a babysitter for four years, Jaime_ —until Jaime mentions that perhaps, _perhaps_ Pod might not want to be leaving this island so soon, given that a certain occupant of the property—a certain auburn-haired occupant whose room overlooks his little house—would be here for the next two or even three years. _Alright_ , Brienne concedes, _but that doesn’t mean one or both of us shouldn’t be present at all their lessons, now that we have the time._

And yes, of course everything still takes some getting used to. It’s a life that is nothing like any of them has ever experienced. But it feels far more like home here than their last apartment ever did. Maybe it even feels more like home than their old three-bedroom house. This island doesn’t have any arcades, or playgrounds, or nice restaurants with valet parking, or museums with armour displays—all things they had enjoyed in their past life. But there’s the meadows and the sea and the beach, and Myrcella makes friends with the lighthouse keeper’s daughter who lets her climb all the way to the top, and there’s a lovely bookstore in town that Pod and Sansa spend all their time in, and Tommen seems to have finally tamed the ginger tabby and named her Joanna, just because he thinks it’s a pretty name.

Here, on this island with a population of one thousand people, far away from any city, they let themselves go by Jaime, and Brienne, and Pod, and Sansa, and Myrcella, and Tommen—even if they still can’t use the names Lannister, or Payne, or Stark. As for any contact with the organisation, the caretaker—who no longer has to do much caretaking, really—comes to check on them once a week. Jaime travels to the mainland occasionally to _consult_ , which is pretty much the only reason he ever puts on his prosthetic now. And they still receive their stipend every month, which Brienne is able to stretch further and save more of now that they can live more simply. She even starts befriending and running errands for the townsfolk, who enjoy rewarding her efforts with produce and the like. She arrives home, bewildered, with five live chickens one day—well, she tells him they are still quite young, not that Jaime has a clue about these things—and they have to set about building a proper coop for them. But once they’ve settled the chickens in, their household has a steady supply of eggs. _Eggs_. Ten years ago, Jaime could never have imagined living a life in which he had a steady supply of eggs without having to buy them.

And, gods—there’s _space_ here. Space to _spar_ , with no one to see or question them. Once, while out on a walk, Jaime and Brienne discover another grove with a creek running through it, and a clearing in the middle that is perfect for sparring—because why not, why not look around them and think, _yes, this is where I’d like to feel alive_ —and Jaime doesn’t even need to look at his wife to know that she’s thinking the same, and soon their limbs are entangled and then their bodies are on the ground and Jaime can hear the sound of their breaths bouncing between the trees and _yes, this is how we feel alive._

Later that night—all the sweat washed off them, and their clothes drying off, because of course Brienne couldn’t resist the urge to send Jaime into the creek, and of course he couldn’t resist the urge to pull her in with him—he buries himself inside her as they move and sigh together in their large-enough bed, and _ah, Jaime_ , she gasps, except it isn’t _Jaime_ that she’d breathed, but his _birth name_. And he stops, and she stops, and she says _should I not_ in their mother tongue, and he replies with _no, you absolutely should_ , because those sounds hadn’t felt altogether unwelcome, though it had been strange to hear it from her lips. Strange, but not _bad_ , and he calls her by her name in return, whispers it on the skin of her cheek, her neck, as he reaches down between them to where they are joined. Her name, his fingers, his cock—he doesn’t care which makes her shudder most, shudder with what feels to him like an intensity that goes deep as bone. Even after he’s found his release, he moves down her body and puts his lips on her, whispers her name between her thighs whenever he comes up for air—which he _just so happens_ to have to do every time she’s about to peak, and honestly, he is half expecting her to knee him in the face for trying this, but she _doesn’t_ , only whimpers his birth name in the weakest form of protest—until finally she’s shuddering again and again and the intensity is, perhaps, soul-deep this time.

“Seven fucking hells,” Brienne exhales, her chest heaving, and he has to laugh at how he recognises the phrase.

“That was what you said the first time I did that to you, wife,” he says, flopping himself onto the bed beside her. “Just… in a different language.”

She doesn’t respond, only blushes like she used to in their past life. He understands: in its own way, it had felt like a first time. They don’t do it often, after tonight—speak in their mother tongue, refer to each other by their birth names, in bed or otherwise. But it’s nice, when they do. Better than nice. A secret part of themselves that they can access just for each other, if they _choose_.

A few months in, while Jaime is taking a break from gardening— _gardening_ , because he _gardens_ now—he heads to Pod’s little house for a visit. Between the bed and the bookshelves and the small desk, there really isn’t much space to accommodate visitors, so Jaime settles himself into the chair at the desk while Pod sits cross-legged on the bed. They chat for a while, about how the twins are getting on with their work, and the new books that have come into the bookstore this week, but Jaime starts getting the odd feeling that there’s something else Pod desperately wants to talk about.

“Alright, out with it,” he declares.

“Out with—with what?” Pod says nervously.

Jaime just gives him a look, and Pod sighs and puts his chin in his hands.

“You—you and Brienne. You didn’t… love each other. At the start. Did you?”

 _Ah. Sansa._ Jaime leans back in his chair. “No, we didn’t.”

“How did you,” Pod puts his fingers together. “How did it… happen?”

How _did_ it happen? It feels so long ago now, and Jaime can’t quite remember what it felt like _not_ to love her. “I don’t know if there was really a _how_ , Pod. It was just this—this natural progression of sharing our lives. Of trusting and respecting each other. We had that long before we fell in love.”

“Oh… but how did you go from, from that, to—”

“Oh—well—” _my wife is going to kill me—_ “Well, don’t tell Brienne I told you, but… I’d say it all started when she asked if we could touch more. I mean,” he corrects, when Pod’s eyes go wide, “she intended it to be more of a… a front, really. To make things between us more believable to the twins.”

Technically, it might have started when he’d killed Renly Baratheon for her. But Pod doesn’t need to know that.

“ _She_ asked _you_?”

Jaime nods. “And things just kind of—spiralled from there. Oh, and I got her a gift, too.”

“What kind of gift?”

 _An entire person_. Briefly, Jaime wonders if Goodwin is doing okay back in their country. “I found her someone she knew from back home,” he says, before his mind can wander too close to thoughts of Pia.

“Oh.” Pod’s face falls. “I can’t do that,” he mutters under his breath.

Jaime recalls the last time he had seen Cersei in that motel room, and what Brienne had done after. “I—I also showed her that I would choose my life with her. Over any alternative.” He recalls how he had held Brienne in the shower, when Ronnet Connington was locked in the trunk of their car. “Even if she showed me the most vulnerable parts of her.”

“Oh,” Pod says again, frowning. “That all sounds—I, I don’t know how I can—”

“Maybe, Pod, it’s as simple as _asking_.” That was what Brienne had done, wasn’t it? She had _asked_ him, and he had _kissed_ her, even if she hadn’t specifically asked him to kiss her.

“What if it’s not the right time—or—”

“Only one way to find out.” Jaime stands from the chair, walks over to Pod and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve given her time, Pod. If you ask, and she says no, then we figure it out from there.”

Pod sighs. “Alright. Thanks, Dad.”

And then Pod stiffens, and goes red, and Jaime has the distinct feeling that the boy would rather be anywhere else but in this little house with the man he’d just called ‘dad’ for the first time. But Jaime just pats him on the shoulder, says “Good luck, son,” and tries to suppress the spring in his step as he makes his way back to the house, where Brienne is just getting started on making dinner.

“Hey,” he says, leaning on the kitchen counter, “guess what just happened.”

“What?” she replies absently, more focused on chopping up the garlic than anything.

“Pod just called me ‘dad’,” he announces, proudly.

“Oh!” Brienne puts down the knife, and looks at him brightly. “That’s wonderful!”

Except there’s something in her _that’s wonderful_ that sounds remarkably _forced_. “You don’t sound very… surprised.”

She sighs, and wrinkles her nose. “Promise me you won’t get mad.”

“That depends on what it is you think I’ll be mad about.”

It comes out in a rush. “Pod… _might_ have called me Mum a couple of times these past few months.”

“What?” Jaime pokes a finger into her ribs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to get jealous! And I’m still not sure if he’d meant to do it.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten jealous,” Jaime pouts. Alright, he _might_ have. But that doesn’t mean Brienne shouldn’t be telling him these things. He folds his arms and tries to compose as stern an expression as he can. “Well, what else have you been keeping from me, wife?”

She smirks, and beckons him closer with a finger. “There’s something I need to confess,” she whispers, once he’s right up next to her, “ _I was once a spy_.”

Jaime just huffs, still sore that she never told him about Pod. “Anyway. He was asking me for advice about _Sansa_.”

“He was asking _you_?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

He nudges her with his stump. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Brienne picks up the knife and starts chopping again.

“ _Nothing_ ,” he repeats.

She puts the knife back down. “I’m just saying. It’s not like you’ve had any _conventional_ relationship experience, Jaime.”

 _How dare she?_ Jaime thinks, though he can only flail his stump wildly between them.

“I said _conventional._ ”

“I don’t think anything about _them_ is conventional.”

“True,” she admits. “So what did you say?”

“I said he should just ask.”

“Interesting.”

Oh, he’s up to _here_ with Brienne’s cryptic statements. “What now?”

She shrugs. “You did a lot of things without asking _me_ first. Kiss me—”

“You asked _me_ to touch _you_.”

“I didn’t say to do it right _then_.”

“So you didn’t _want_ me to kiss you?”

“I didn’t realise that I did till _after_. And then you switched our handlers—”

“Ha, that made _you_ kiss _me_ —”

“Then you dragged me into a confrontation with your ex who _also_ happens to be your cousin—”

“And what happened on the couch after that?”

She bites her lip, and _oh_ , he _knows_ her mind is back on that couch again. _His_ mind is back on that couch again, how she’d given him those rules to follow.

“You know,” Jaime teases, stroking the back of his fingers down her arm. “We never did go very far with that whole _rules_ thing.”

She sidles away from his hand, and stares down at the chopping board. “I don’t know what you mean,” she mumbles.

He thinks she knows exactly what he means, but he’ll explain it if he must. “Rules—the things we tell each other that we can, or cannot do—they can be… _helpful_ … for so much more than just protection.”

Brienne clears her throat, and picks up the knife again. “We’ll continue this discussion _after_ dinner.”

They’ll continue it in their large-enough bed, Jaime hopes, as he makes his way back out to the garden again.

A week passes, then another, and nothing between Pod and Sansa seems to have changed. But when they’re about to head out of the house one afternoon, and Jaime asks, casually, if they’re going to the bookstore, Pod shakes his head. “We’re—we’re going to explore the ruins. On the—the other side of the island.” And this wouldn’t seem particularly interesting to Jaime, except Pod’s face is red, and then Jaime looks at Sansa and now it’s _doubly_ interesting because _her_ face is red too, as if she knows what’s coming, and then it’s ten times more interesting because when Myrcella and Tommen ask if they can come too, both Pod and Sansa say _no!_ with more vehemence than is really necessary, and Jaime has to assure the twins that he’ll bring them exploring tomorrow.

Just as the sun is setting, Jaime looks out the front window to see Pod and Sansa coming through the grove, and, if his eyes aren’t failing him, they’re walking hand-in-hand. He catches Brienne’s eye, tipping his head towards the window, and she comes over and wraps her arms around his waist.

“Ah, young love,” he says, wistfully.

“Hmm.” Brienne rests her head on his shoulder. “I think there’s something to be said for old love too.”

“Are you calling me old _again_?”

“Did I say I was talking about us?”

“Who else would you be talking about?”

“Who knows how old Joanna is,” she says, just as the cat walks through their front yard with Bear close behind. “She could be ancient. But she seems to like our Bear well enough now.”

Jaime squints through the window. “Is it just me, or is she putting on weight?”

“Well, Tommen’s feeding her—” and then Brienne stops. “Oh no.”

“Seven hells,” Jaime sighs. “There’s a vet on this island, I hope?”

“One.”

“We’re getting them _both_ fixed after this.”

‘This’ turns out to be two kittens born a month later—two female tortoiseshells ( _you don’t need to say they’re female, Daddy,_ lectures Tommen, _because pretty much all torties are female_ ). Tommen offers to let Myrcella name them, and she decides on Alysanne and Arianne, the names of twin sisters from one of her books. Jaime watches as Bear sniffs at his offspring curiously, and thinks, _Joanna, Alysanne, Arianne. All sensible, if overly human names. And you got stuck with Bear._ Not that any of the cats would care what their names are, as long as they have something good to eat, and someplace warm to sleep.

Here they are, then. Safe, and together, and _happy_. Two adults, two teenagers, two children, four cats, and fine, Jaime will include the five chickens too. There’s something in it that feels undeserved—why should they get to be happy, with all the things they’ve done? Why shouldn’t they be punished?—but he tries not to dwell on it too often. _We were fighting in a war, Jaime_ , Brienne tells him. _It doesn’t make it right, or fair. But we were on a battlefield, even if it didn’t feel like it._ And they were. They were fighting in a decades-long war that, even today, neither side wants to call a war.

Then, three years later, the war ends.

In truth, Jaime hadn’t expected it at all. It had been going on for so long that he could sometimes wake up in the mornings—especially here, in a fairly remote part of a fairly remote island in a country that maintains a policy of neutrality—and not remember that it was still happening. Then he picks up the newspaper one day and—there it is. Front page news. The war is over.

He wonders if any one of their operations influenced that, even just a little bit.

After the war, life, for them, doesn’t change. They have no desire to go back home any longer, even if the borders are open now. In any case, who knows what remnants of the Centre might still be searching for them. They do decide, however, that it might finally be time to tell the twins what country they are really from. What kind of job they did. Why Pod came to live with them, and Sansa too. Not all the grisly details—they’ve only just turned fourteen—but enough.

Again—just like how it was four years ago when they told the twins they needed to leave—Myrcella doesn’t speak to them for days. But this time, she’s at least able to tell them that she just needs time. On the fourth day, she comes to their room, and asks them to speak their language. _We love you very much_ , Brienne says, and Myrcella bursts into tears upon hearing these unfamiliar sounds from her mother’s lips, although it conveyed what should have been a familiar sentiment.

“Even when I was young,” she manages to say, once she’s calmed down. “Back in our old country. I was always… conscious, of what they would say. That you, that—that _we_ , were evil.”

“It was a war, honey,” Jaime replies, and brings her into his arms. “There’s hatred on all sides. We were taught that the other side was evil too.”

They let things sit for a couple of months, and don’t bring it up again except to answer any questions the twins have for them. Then, Jaime decides:

“We’re all going to learn how to fight.”

It’s for self-defence only, he warns them. Pod had already taught Sansa some moves—she’d started working at the bookstore a couple days a week, and sometimes alone, so it made her feel safer—but now they are going to learn as a family. It’s surprisingly enjoyable, not anything like the harsh training regimes that Jaime and Brienne had been subjected to, and Myrcella takes to it so brilliantly that Jaime wishes they could have started it sooner. _And how would we have explained it to the twins?_ Brienne reminds him, and she’s right. At least they’re making up for lost time now.

One day, while Jaime is just trying to enjoy a cup of tea on the couch with Alysanne curled up beside him, Tommen bursts through the front door.

“Dad!”

“What?”

“Come look!”

And he points through the front door, and Jaime sets his cup of tea down on the coffee table and walks out—much to Alysanne’s annoyance—but all he sees is Pod and Sansa getting out of their car, and did Tommen really make all that racket just because Pod picked up Sansa from the bookstore like he always does?

Until he realises that they’re not the only ones getting out of the car.

Jaime runs up to the gate and flings it open, then just stands there, speechless.

“When I told you I would find you,” Tyrion sighs, “I didn’t expect you to make it so difficult for me. I don’t think I’m made for _boats_ , brother.”

“Seven hells,” Jaime croaks, barely finding his voice. “I thought you were dead.”

“No, no. I’m very much alive, as you can see, and managed to hitch a ride from the town.” He points a thumb towards Pod and Sansa.

“Hello, Uncle,” Tommen says from Jaime’s side. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course I do. How’s your cat? Bear, isn’t it?”

Tommen grins. “He’s good. He has a family now. A wife and two kids.”

“A _wife_? Well, I’m sorry to have missed the ceremony,” Tyrion says, though he glances at Jaime with a look that says, _I really hope you didn’t hold a wedding for two cats._

Jaime has a thousand questions for his brother, but he expects that most of them can’t be answered in the presence of the children. So they slowly make their way towards the house, Tommen running ahead to find his mother and sister.

“You’ve made yourself a home here,” Tyrion says. “And I hear you still go by Jaime.”

“I do. Just on the island.”

“So I suppose I should go by Tyrion.”

“You don’t have to. We told the kids.”

Tyrion stops, while Pod and Sansa overtake them and head into the house. “Really? How did they take it?”

“As well as can be expected. We waited till after the war ended, so it’s still pretty fresh.”

Tyrion nods. “I’m fine with Tyrion. I have no attachment to any of my names.” And then he looks down at his feet. “Listen, brother—before we head in there. You should know—Father’s dead.”

“Oh.” _Father’s dead._ Jaime hadn’t seen the General in so long that he’d practically thought of his father as dead already. “Do I want to know how?”

Some shadow seems to fall over Tyrion’s face. “Probably not.”

Just then, Brienne appears in the doorway. “Tyrion.”

“Ah, Brienne,” Tyrion says, turning towards her. “You look radiant. The island life suits you best, I expect.”

She smiles, the warmest smile she’s probably ever given Tyrion. “It suits all of us, I think. Come in, I’m just making dinner.”

Jaime had almost forgotten how good a conversationalist his brother is. While they’re waiting for Brienne to be done with dinner—with Pod and Sansa helping her—Tyrion is able to entertain Myrcella and Tommen with stories of their childhood, the rare good parts of their childhood, while barely alluding to their former jobs at all.

“Will you stay with us tonight, Uncle?” Myrcella asks, once Tyrion has run out of anecdotes.

“Oh, I was just going to stay in town, if someone would give me a lift back. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“But we have room! Sansa hardly sleeps in her room anymore. She stays half the nights in Pod’s house.”

“Pod has a _house_?” Tyrion says, just as Sansa lets out something like a squeak, and Pod almost drops the plate in his hands, and Brienne scolds Myrcella for offering Sansa’s room without asking her first. “Wait—Sansa stays with—this is all very confusing.”

“We converted a garden shed out back for Pod,” Jaime laughs. “It’s nicer than it sounds. And, well, these two have been carrying on for three years now. Though the staying over part is pretty new.”

To think Sansa thought they wouldn’t notice when she started sneaking out of the house at night about a year ago. That had made for a very awkward conversation that Jaime would rather not remember. But, well, he and Brienne had reasoned that they’d rather it happen on their watch before Sansa, almost twenty now, and Pod, twenty-two, finally go off to university. They won’t be able to go as _Sansa_ and _Podrick_ , but they’ll be starting together at a small college on the mainland in a few months.

“Well, if there’s a free bedroom,” Tyrion shrugs, “I wouldn’t mind staying here for a night or two.”

“That’s all?” Jaime says. “You’ve come all this way.”

“I have some work to get back to. But I’m in this country for good, now, so I should be able to visit more often. Or you could come visit me.”

“Could we, Dad?” Tommen asks, all excitement. “We haven’t been off the island in _ages_.”

“Of course we can,” Jaime answers. “He’s family.”

After dinner, Jaime, Brienne, and Tyrion sit out on the front lawn, where they’d put a bench and a couple of wooden crates that had been salvaged from an old restaurant in town. They all have a glass of red wine in their hands—even Brienne, who still seldom partakes in any kind of alcohol—and it’s so serene that Jaime almost can’t believe it. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been able to just _be_ with his brother like this, without worrying about their father, or their cousin, or the Centre, and all the associated repercussions.

“Just like old times,” Tyrion comments, though Jaime was just thinking that this is anything but.

“How have you been, brother?” Jaime asks. “Really.”

Tyrion heaves a sigh. “It hasn’t been easy. I tried to hold the Centre off at first, but…” He trails off, and takes a sip of his wine. “Anyway. I managed to make it here, about a year or so after you did.”

“What? You’ve been here all this time?”

“I have. But I’ve been working, and I didn’t want to attract any suspicion to myself or your family. So I stayed away until I knew it was safe.”

“You think it’s safe now?” Brienne ventures.

“Safe enough, with the war over. Though I’d still be careful if I were you, and I certainly wouldn’t fault you for staying here.”

“Hmm,” Jaime replies, taking a sip of his wine too. “We’ve been thinking about enrolling the twins in high school.” With Pod and Sansa going away, Jaime knows he and Brienne won’t be able to manage the twins’ education. And they’d have to give them a good one if the kids are to have the options that were never available to him or Brienne.

“And leave your island paradise?”

“We’re still trying to figure it out. The nearest school is more than an hour away including the boat ride. It’s not unmanageable, but it could get exhausting for them.”

Tyrion clicks his tongue. “I don’t envy your choices.”

“Better than the choices we used to face,” Brienne mutters, to Tyrion’s visible pleasure.

“Why, good-sister.” He raises his glass to her. “I would call that progress.”

She rolls her eyes at him—with an ease that she would never have shown back when he was their handler—and settles more closely into Jaime’s side.

“If I may ask,” Tyrion says, tentatively. “Would you ever consider going back to work? Not out in the field, but… training other agents in this country, perhaps. Confidentially, of course.”

“Is that why you’re here?” says Jaime. “Not to visit your brother and his family?”

“I’m killing two birds with one stone.”

“Depends on the kids,” is Brienne’s answer. Jaime is surprised it isn’t an outright refusal, though he knows she’s been getting restless of late. “They come first, always.”

“As they should.”

They sit in silence for the next few minutes, sipping their wine in the night air. Then, Tyrion says, “You know what they’re calling the war now, don’t you?”

“We heard.” They had named it something euphemistic, almost _romantic_ , a phrase that had already been used to describe other dark periods in the distant and not-so-distant pasts. “It’s very unoriginal. There’ve already been a couple of those, and I doubt they were much like this one.”

“All of them had their horrors. One would hope people might learn from them.”

“No. People don’t do that.” They will only call it history, and use that as an excuse to forget that the war had once governed their entire existence. They will relegate it to this thing they call the past, as if the past is something that can simply be left behind, not seen again, buried; as if its effects are not always felt viscerally in the present. They will forget any lessons it could have taught, forget that even if people fall from power, _power_ remains.

“I don’t know,” Brienne says, breaking through Jaime’s bitter thoughts. “Some people learn, I think. Maybe not enough. But some do.”

“Like us?” Jaime suggests.

She shrugs, carefully rotating her wine glass by its stem. “I don’t know about that. We stepped away to protect our family. What good did that do anyone besides us?”

“Think of it this way, Brienne,” Tyrion offers. “You were weapons, weren’t you? Tools to be used, if not by one side, then by the other. Removing yourself from the equation was the best thing you could have done.”

“Perhaps,” she sighs. “I know it might sound naive, but—I’d wanted to make this world better. And I’m not sure I’ve done anything to achieve that.”

“Well. You’re—thirty-four now?”

“Thirty-five.”

“There’s still time, I think. This world could always use some bettering.”

Tyrion lifts his glass to his lips again, only to realise there is no wine left in it. “I suppose this is my cue to get ready for bed,” he says, holding up the empty glass.

They bid their goodnights, but Jaime and Brienne decide to stay on the bench a while longer. It’s a clear night, and Jaime thinks he will never tire of looking up at the stars from this island, how infinite they seem in this great expanse of sky. There’s a moon out tonight too, a crescent moon.

“Hey,” Jaime nudges Brienne.

“Hmm?”

“Want to know a secret, wife?”

She sets her glass down on a crate, and twists to look at him. “Another one? I thought we were done with those.”

He smiles at her, then leans forward so he can whisper the words into her ear. “You make my world better.”

Brienne laughs, winding one arm around his waist, and placing her other hand on his thigh. “Is that the best you can do, husband?”

“Actually, no. You make Myrcella’s world better, and Tommen’s, and Pod’s, and Sansa’s, and the cats’, and the chickens’—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

She leans in to kiss him, and he savours the lingering taste of red wine on her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever kissed you after you’ve had a drink,” he muses, when they part.

“Good to know there’s still new experiences to be had between us.”

Suddenly, she snorts, and slaps his thigh.

“What?” he laughs.

“I just—I just remembered the first time I had a drink around you.”

For a brief moment, it’s the two of them down in the basement again. “You mean when I drowned you in whiskey so I could pull out your _tooth_?”

She nods, barely able to control her laughter. The distress of that night—her pain, and their argument after—had long been worn thin by the years. “Imagine if—if you’d kissed me then—”

“Mmm, whiskey and blood.” He licks his lips. “Sounds delicious.”

“Sounds awful,” she says, still giggling.

“I’d still do it.”

She lifts her hand from his thigh to pat his chest lightly. “There are lots of things we’re capable of doing, husband. Doesn’t mean we should do all of them.”

“Well.” He puts his own glass down, and reaches for her hand. “I’d just like to say, wife, that I’m glad for all the things I’ve been able to do with you.”

It seems wrong to say once he’s said it. They’ve done terrible things in the past, things he wishes they hadn’t had to do, and anyone else might hear those words and think he was glad to do them. Still, he knows Brienne will understand it. He’s glad that it was her by his side through all of it, that it’s her on this bench beside him now. He’s glad for the things he wouldn’t have been able to do without her. And he’ll tell her that she makes his world better, and that he’s glad to have her in it, even if she laughs at him for getting sentimental.

But this time, Brienne just smiles.

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> I included one last nod to The Americans, from 3x10, when they reveal to their daughter Paige that they’re Russian. She asks them to speak their language in [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wev29hV2fsA). 
> 
> I’ve received invaluable advice and support over these past ten months from my betas [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat), and I can’t thank them enough for everything. There have also been so many people who’ve commented here or discussed this story with me on [Tumblr](https://shipping-receiving.tumblr.com/) since I first started posting (especially back when I was still finding my feet and writing 1.5-3k word chapters instead of 4-6k ones), or even before that when I was just tossing the idea around in my head. Every single bit has contributed to the growth of this story, so thank you for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, sending me messages – while this story was in progress, or even if you’re reading this years down the road. Know that I appreciate all of it!


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